#the “closing a chapter: remember everything” always gets me in the feels

[mon-amorie]

‎ ‎ ‎ ... ‎ ( ‎ Hotline ‎ ) ‎ P.2

scene ‎ ─── ‎ on campus where anonymity breeds honesty, a late-night confessions app becomes your escape. a place where students anonymously share voice notes or texts about anything—stress, confessions, poetry, love, lust, loneliness—all sacred. naturally, you become drawn to a certain user, his words resonating deeply, almost bleeding through the screen. compelled by an unspoken connection, you send a reply

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ‎ ‎ ( pairing ) ‎ hyunjin x f!reader ‎ ( genre ) ‎ college au, slow burn, fluff, slight angst, academic burnout, profanity, contains mature content ‎ !mdni! ‎ ( wc. ) ‎ 28.7k‎ / ‎ part one. ‎ back to nav.

゜・．・ note! ‎ ─ ‎ wasn't meant to be two parts but here we are… continues right where we left off. again, hope you enjoy the rest of this fic, please let me know what you think. lots of love, nana

‎ ‎ ‎ Sometimes you wonder how life decides which moments will stick with you and which ones will slip by without a trace.

You move through your days on autopilot. Same streets. Same jokes. Same half-slept nights. Most of it blends together, bleeding into itself until time loses its shape.

But once in a while, something shifts. Something small hits different. A glance, a word, a silence. And before you even recognize it, it’s lodged itself into memory. Quietly, stubbornly. Like it’s always been there.

You’ve been noticing that more lately. The way small choices stay with you. A class you almost skipped. A seat you almost didn’t take. A person you never meant to notice. Not the kind who explodes into your life like a firework, but the kind who settles in like background noise. Steady, persistent, impossible to unhear once you’ve tuned in.

And you keep insisting it’s not about him.

That’s not the story you’re telling. That’s not who you are. You don’t get caught up like this, especially not now. Not when you’re this close to the end. This was meant to be the quiet stretch. Head down, eyes forward. No mess. No rewrites. No new beginnings when you haven’t finished the last chapter.

But there he is. Showing up in the quiet moments. Slipping into your thoughts when the noise dies down. Not loudly, just enough. Like a lyric you didn’t mean to memorize. Something you never meant to keep, but now can’t seem to let go of.

And it’s not just him.

It’s the people. The places. The way the city feels different now that you’ve walked those streets with someone beside you. It’s the group chat arguments over snacks and midnight jokes that feel more like lifelines. It’s the late walks back to your dorm, the dumb stuff that somehow started to matter.

The filler scenes, turning into plot points.

Some nights, you think about the version of you who didn’t show up that day. Who stayed home, missed the train, never walked into that room. That version wouldn’t know what she missed. And somehow, that’s what lingers. How easy it would’ve been to let it all pass you by.

You try not to dwell. Try to keep your eyes on what’s next. But even when you’re not thinking about it, it’s still there. A quiet thrum beneath everything else. A soft pulse at the edge of your vision.

Because some things don’t leave. Not really.

You remember coming back to your dorm that night, still riding the sugar high, cheeks sore from laughing, your shoes swinging from your fingertips because it felt easier than wearing them.

You texted him, almost hesitating before hitting send. Added your name, just in case he forgot.

lemme know once u get home safe

He replied a few minutes later, simple and low-effort but enough.

dw, i did :) hope you did too

And that was it. No fireworks. Just a tired smile pulling at your lips. Something small and instinctive, like muscle memory. After that, things started to shift. Not all at once or dramatically, but you noticed.

Poetry class came quicker than you were ready for. You barely had time to sit before the professor told everyone to trade assignments with their partner. You didn’t know what to expect from his writing. Maybe something vague or careful. But it wasn’t.

It was raw. Stripped-down honest in a way most people avoid, especially when it counts for a grade. Nothing overly poetic, nothing trying too hard. Just real. The kind of truth that sneaks up on you because it sounds so much like your own.

There were no names. No clues pointing anywhere. But you read it once, then again, hoping—maybe even aching—for it to be about you.

And across the room, he was doing the same.

Because somewhere between the scrawl of your handwriting and the way you wrote about fleeting things like they mattered, he saw a version of you he hadn’t quite seen before. Even if the poem wasn’t about him. Even if it was about no one in particular. The way you noticed things, that was enough to make him wonder. To make him hope.

Class ended too fast. You lingered, slowly packing your notebook under your arm, half-stalling when you felt a soft tap against it.

You looked up, and there he was. Eyes lowered, voice quieter than usual.

“I liked yours,” he said, like it was no big deal. Like it didn’t settle directly into your chest.

You smiled without thinking. “I liked yours too.”

He nodded, half-shy, half-pleased, and ducked his head like he didn’t want you to see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. But you caught it.

After that, the weeks moved differently.

Late-night texts started coming more often, drifting into your mornings. Inside jokes started stacking up like little souvenirs tucked in your notes app. In class, he moved seats to sit beside you, brushing it off like it just made more sense. Like it wasn’t a decision he spent way too long overthinking.

You started walking to the bakery after class together, usually because he “didn’t want to go alone,” but you both knew that wasn’t really why.

The first time it happened, Minho caught sight of the two of you through the bakery window. He didn’t say anything at the time, just raised his eyebrows slightly and filed the moment away.

The next day at work, he gave you that look. The one that says I see you, but he won’t spell it out unless you make him. Sharp-eyed. Half-amused. But he let it be.

Maybe that’s why, days later, you found yourself walking beside him, the night before his birthday, trying not to laugh too hard while you fake-argued over his cake choice in a bakery that smelled like butter and sugar and something too soft to name.

You’d been there longer than expected, hovering near the glass display while the cashier wrapped up the box behind the counter. He kept second-guessing the cake, flipping between mousse and tiramisu, then back again like either one was life-altering.

You didn’t help. You just stood beside him with your arms crossed, making quiet noises of judgment every time he pointed at something with too much frosting.

“Be honest,” Minho said, eyeing the mousse like it had personally offended him. “If this was for you, what would you pick?”

“I wouldn’t wait until the night before,” you replied, not looking at him, pretending to study the croissants instead. “That’s what I’d pick.”

He scoffed. “Okay. But if we’re already here?”

“Probably the strawberry sponge,” you said. “It looks lighter.”

“Lighter? It’s cake.”

You shrugged. “Some of us like feeling joy without a stomachache.”

He gave you a look. Flat, unimpressed, familiar. “You’re exhausting.”

You smiled, not denying it. There was a comfort in how easily he threw those words around. Like he didn’t need to mean them. Like he trusted you’d know the difference.

In the end, he still went with the mousse. He stepped aside to pay, and you watched him from behind, absentmindedly peeling the paper off a stray straw wrapper. There was something familiar in the way he stood. Slightly hunched like he was trying not to take up space. The kind of posture people carry when they’ve always expected to be overlooked.

You wondered if he knew he didn’t have to do that around you anymore. Probably not. You’d tell him someday. Or maybe you wouldn’t. It didn’t feel urgent.

He reached for the box as the cashier slid it across the counter, then turned to you with that little victorious tilt of his head like he’d proven a point.

You didn’t know what point it was, but you let him have it. “Happy early birthday, I guess,” you muttered. “You’re welcome.”

“You didn’t buy it.”

“Moral support counts.”

“You argued against the cake the entire time.”

“That is my version of support.” He rolled his eyes and nudged you toward the door. You went, still smiling, shoes soft against the tile as the night pressed in just beyond the glass.

“What’s wrong with chocolate mousse?” he said again, pushing the door open with his shoulder as you stepped out into the cool air.

“Nothing,” you shrugged, falling into step beside him. “It’s just… predictable.”

He gave you a look. “You’re predictable.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “Wow. That’s your comeback?”

“Works every time,” he said, smirking just enough to be annoying.

You scoffed under your breath and bumped your shoulder into his, not hard, just familiar. 

You both paused at the curb, unhurried, the kind of stillness that didn’t ask to be filled. Traffic hummed softly in the distance. Someone laughed around the corner. The cake box was balanced in his hands like something fragile, though you knew it wasn’t. He glanced over at you, then back at the sidewalk ahead.

“So,” he said, dragging the word out like it had weight. “You and Hyunjin, huh?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What about us?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Minho said, switching the box to one hand so he could nudge you with his elbow. “You’re always looking at each other like…” He paused, squinted, raised his hands like a director setting a frame. “Like you’re in a coffee commercial.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough to feel it in your neck. “Shut up.”

He laughed, really laughed this time, the sound echoing off the buildings around you like it didn’t want to stop. You didn’t join in, but you smiled, eyes trained on the sidewalk, the corner of your mouth pulling without permission.

“I’m just saying,” he said, softer now, his voice dipping back into something closer to normal. “It feels different. In a good way.”

You didn’t respond, not immediately. Just let the words settle. They didn’t need an answer.

And even with all the teasing, even with your careful deflections and the way you’d trained yourself to shrug things off before they got too close, something about what he said stayed with you. Not because it was surprising. But because it wasn’t.

It almost slipped away the night of his birthday.

Almost.

Expensive Korean barbecue had been bought without a second thought for his birthday dinner. The kind that sizzled and smoked under the warm hum of conversation, where the metal vents overhead pulled in the haze but never quite cleared it.

The table filled slowly with side dishes and voices, overlapping in the easy chaos that only happens with people who’ve known each other long enough to speak without thinking.

There was no order to the meal. Someone was always flipping meat too early, someone else was stealing pieces off the grill before they were ready, the tongs passed around like an afterthought. Drinks were poured messily, small glasses raised over and over until you lost count of who was toasting what. Laughter caught in the smoke. The air was thick with it. Heat, hunger, happiness. Everyone leaned in a little closer than usual. Like the warmth might escape if they didn’t.

Even Jisung had shown up, slipping through the door with an apologetic grin and that flustered energy that always made you wonder how he got anywhere at all. “I was here the whole time,” he said as he pulled up a chair, like anyone believed him. Someone booed. He bowed deeply like he was accepting an award. A cheer went up anyway. It wasn’t about truth. It was about presence.

New faces filtered in as the night went on, pulled in by text invites and word of mouth. People you barely knew a week ago were suddenly offering you shots and asking for your star sign. Stories flowed as easily as the drinks. Everything felt loose. Safe. Time was forgotten, or maybe just ignored. Someone ordered more food even though no one was really hungry anymore. No one complained.

You’d disappeared somewhere between courses. The noise had started to feel like a blur, so you slipped out, taking the chance to give Minho his gifts before anyone else noticed.

The key ring was quiet. Just his cat’s initials, pressed into the leather with a kind of permanence that made it feel older than it was. You knew he’d like the weight of it. The simplicity. The usefulness.

The camera, though, was a different story. You weren’t sure what possessed you. Maybe it was the way he talked once, quietly, about wanting to travel more. About not remembering things as well as he used to. You didn’t say any of that when you handed it to him. You just gave it over and said, “Don’t lose it.”

He squinted at the box like it might bite him. “...You’re so annoying,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, but his mouth twitched at the corners, just enough. He turned away like that would hide it. It didn’t.

Later, he hooked the keychain onto his keys without a word. And the camera? It was out before dessert. The first photo was crooked. Everyone was laughing too hard to sit still, cheeks pink and eyes half-shut, someone’s chopsticks caught mid-air. The flash bounced off the smoke. You didn’t need it to be perfect. It just needed to exist.

Someone, probably Chan, slipped away to grab the cake. When he returned, the chocolate mousse you’d argued over was topped with a single sparkler, hissing and spitting light as everyone scrambled to find their phones. Minho groaned, already dreading the attention, but the sparkler hissed louder, forcing him to play along.

The birthday song that followed was a mess. Loud, chaotic, completely off-key. But no one cared. He blew out the sparkler with one sharp breath, muttering something about wishing for new friends, but his grin gave him away.

No one touched the cake until he’d claimed the first slice. Even then, people kept stealing bites from his plate. He let them.

And Hyunjin… well, Hyunjin never wandered too far.

He didn’t make a point of it, didn’t draw a line in the sand between you and the rest of the group. He just moved naturally, sitting beside you like that was the only available seat, brushing your leg under the table like it wasn’t the third time.

His hands moved without hesitation. Reaching for side dishes, refilling water, nudging napkins your way when your fingers were too sticky to grab them yourself. He didn’t make a show of anything. That’s what made it worse. Or maybe better. You didn’t know.

At some point, his arm found the back of your chair. It didn’t drop there all at once. Just settled gradually, like it had always been there.

You didn’t lean in. You didn’t move away. It just was. The kind of closeness you don’t question until later, when you’re lying in bed trying to figure out if it meant something or if it just meant comfort.

By the time the group drifted into the night, the city had cooled. The streets breathed easier after the warmth of the restaurant. Everyone was buzzing. Soft, sleepy chaos.

Chaeryeong had started humming some old K-pop song and pulled you into a half-dance, your feet barely cooperating as you stumbled across the pavement, laughing too hard to remember the lyrics. Jisung joined in just to be annoying, singing the wrong words on purpose until Minho shoved him half-heartedly. 

Hyunjin didn’t say anything. Just stepped forward and gently took your bag from your shoulder, like it was the most normal thing in the world. His fingers brushed yours when he did. You didn’t comment. Neither did he.

Someone bought snacks from the convenience store, and the group huddled near the glowing machines outside, unwrapping candy and sipping canned drinks like the night would never end.

Seungmin passed out gum to whoever wanted some, and Minhyuk argued with Chan over the best flavor of chips until they realized they’d bought the same ones anyway.

Voices got quieter. Jokes got lazier. Eventually, people started leaving in waves. Early classes. Train schedules. Work in the morning. Excuses, all of them. But no one wanted to say goodbye first.

There were hugs, loose and off-balance. Arms wrapped around shoulders. Heads knocked together in clumsy affection. Sleepy promises: “Let’s do this again soon,” “Don’t forget to send me the pictures,” “Text me when you get home.” No one believed they’d follow through. But no one questioned the sincerity of it, either.

Hyunjin hugged you too. Brief, like the others, but different somehow. His arms wrapped around you with a quiet care that caught you off guard. Not tight or stiff. Just enough to notice. His chin brushed your shoulder before he stepped back, his hand lingering on your arm a second too long before slipping away.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. But the squeeze—quiet, careful, almost an afterthought—stayed with you. Long after everyone had gone. Long after you made it home. And somewhere between peeling off your shoes and sinking into your bed, it hit you.

You hadn’t felt this light in a long time.

The thought stopped you cold, settling deep in your chest. When was the last time life didn’t feel so heavy? When was the last time your shoulders didn’t carry the weight of everything you were afraid to drop?

It startled you, that kind of softness. The way gratitude can slip in without warning and leave you breathless. The way joy can feel so fragile you’re scared to look at it too closely, in case it disappears.

Because truthfully? You’d been close. Close to unraveling quietly while everyone else clapped for you, so sure you were okay, so convinced you had it all handled.

And it was absurd, wasn’t it?

You had it good. You had friends. You were about to graduate. Things could be so much worse. And yet, the weight never left you. The guilt for not being happier, the constant voice in your head whispering that a single low grade was a sign you were stupid, that a single bad day meant you were doomed to fail. It was exhausting.

But nights like this… nights where nothing big happened, where no one was asking anything of you, where you could just exist with the people who had quietly become your people—

Nights like this reminded you: maybe you weren’t as lost as you thought.

𐪞

The invite came quietly. No fanfare. No shared calendar link or group poll. Just a message dropped in the lull of a late afternoon. That odd hour when everyone’s half-busy, half-bored, still reflexively checking their phones like something might change.

It was the kind of thing you said yes to without really thinking. And maybe that was what made it feel good. Like no one was trying too hard.

By the time you got there, the sky had folded into that muted kind of blue that feels nearly grayscale. No sun, no rain, just air. The street was hushed, tucked somewhere between dinner and dark. 

Jeongin’s apartment sat on the second floor of a modest building, the kind with narrow stairwells and doorbells that buzzed too loud. The front door stuck a little at the hinge, but the light spilling out through the frosted window was already warm. Yellow and soft like butter on rice.

He opened the door with one foot, a half-eaten bag of chips tucked under his arm, and a wooden spoon between his teeth like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Wow,” he mumbled around it, stepping back to let you in. “You showed up before Chan. Historic.”

You kicked off your shoes and nudged them into a neater pile. “He’s probably circling for parking.”

“Or napping in the car like the ancient man he is.”

The door creaked again just as Jeongin said it. Chan walked in, holding two bottles of iced tea in one hand and shooting Jeongin a look that could’ve curdled milk.

“Say it again,” he warned, slow. “I dare you.”

“You’re late,” Jeongin shrugged, grabbing one of the bottles like it had always belonged to him. “Did you have to stretch before walking up the stairs?”

Chan set the other bottle on the counter with a thud. “Don’t ask me for help moving your couch ever again.”

“No promises.”

Jisung showed up a little while later, headphones still hanging loose around his neck and his hoodie halfway unzipped like he’d run the last block.

Then came Chaeryeong, breezing in with a knit tote bag and zero explanation, like she'd already lived this night once before and had just decided to return.

Not everyone could make it. But the ones who were free came. That was enough.

There was no plan. No itinerary or playlist waiting. Just a couch with too many blankets, something bubbling on the stove that smelled like ramen but richer, and the vague suggestion of a movie no one would watch until half the group was already horizontal.

You sat on the edge of the counter, swinging your legs lightly, watching Jeongin stir something into the broth. Garlic, maybe. Or sesame oil. Whatever it was, it made the kitchen feel like a small, warm world of its own.

Then, without hesitation, he dumped what could only be described as a reckless amount of chili flakes into the pot.

You blinked. “Is that… safe?”

“It’s not about safety,” he said, as if you’d asked something deeply philosophical. “It’s about respect.”

“You’re literally cooking instant noodles.”

“And they deserve to be treated with dignity.”

He handed you the first bowl. No fancy toppings, no garnish, just a glossy broth and a single perfect egg, soft-boiled to that exact kind of tender that makes you question your whole technique. You took a bite.

Of course, infuriatingly, it was good.

The rest of the night folded in on itself like that. Quiet movement, half-finished conversations, laughter that didn’t demand attention. At some point, Jisung booted up Little Nightmares on the TV and tossed you the second controller.

“Do not let me play this alone,” he said, already adjusting the brightness.

You squinted at the menu screen. “Is it scary?”

“It’s eerie,” Jeongin said from the floor, one socked foot propped up against the coffee table. “Not jump-scare scary. Just unsettling.”

Chan glanced over with a raised brow. “You screamed during the opening cutscene last time.”

“There was a loud door slam,” Jeongin argued, deadpan. “That’s a reasonable reaction.”

The game started slow. Long corridors, shadowy figures, the kind of atmosphere that made you hold your breath even when nothing was happening. You and Jisung traded the controller back and forth. He was better at jumping puzzles. You were better at not panicking when things chased you.

Chaeryeong curled up beside you on the couch, her legs folded under her and a blanket draped around her shoulders like she hadn’t even asked, just taken it. She kept gasping at all the wrong moments, even when the screen was dead quiet. 

Chan sat nearby, one arm lazily slung over the back of the couch, giving half-hearted directions in that dry, detached tone only older siblings seemed to master.

“Go left,” he said. “No, your other left.”

It felt like a long exhale.

There wasn’t any pressure to be interesting. No one was trying to one-up anyone. The light from the screen flickered across everyone’s faces, soft and shadowed. Jeongin leaned his head back against the wall at one point and closed his eyes. Jisung stopped narrating his every move. The quiet came not from boredom, but comfort.

Then someone broke it just enough to ask, “Ice cream?”

Jeongin perked up immediately, eyes blinking open like he'd been waiting for someone to say it.

“Yes. I bought weird flavors. You’re all trying them.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and reemerged with five small tubs, their labels strange and half-English. One had a taro root and sea salt on the front. Another was just called “black milk” in minimalist silver font. There was a pale green one that smelled faintly like rice, and a pink-speckled mystery that turned out to be lychee-strawberry.

“Jeongin,” Chaeryeong said, eyeing them with suspicion, “these look cursed.”

“They’re elite,” he said, already handing her a spoon. “You have no taste.”

“Taste is exactly what I’m worried about.”

You tried the taro one first. Creamy, a little salty, a flavor you couldn’t quite name. Not bad. Just unexpected. Jisung made a dramatic face after trying the lychee, but still reached for a second bite.

Chan didn’t say a word. Just passed each container with quiet efficiency, sampling everything, finishing his scoop before anyone else even commented. You caught the small hum he made when trying the black milk, like he wasn’t planning to admit it was good.

Now the apartment smelled like soy sauce and cold sugar, savory hanging low in the walls, sweet clinging to the air. Someone had turned the game volume down, and music played again. Not loudly, just some leftover track on loop at the tail end of a forgotten playlist.

The voices in the room softened. Jisung ended up half-sprawled on the rug, thumbing through a game on his phone with the screen turned low. Chaeryeong was scrolling through something, showing Jeongin a picture every few minutes with a quiet laugh. 

You stood slowly, brushing your hands off on your jeans, and began gathering the empty bowls without needing to be asked.

You moved into the kitchen. Rinsed each bowl under warm water. Stacked them gently. Let the faucet run and felt the heat seep into your palms, grounding and quiet.

The rest of the apartment hummed behind you, dim and cozy, but out of reach for a moment. The light in the kitchen buzzed faintly above you. You paused, listening to the low murmur of voices and laughter. Let yourself breathe.

Then, soft footsteps.

And Chan’s voice behind you, casual, like he hadn’t just been watching you slip away.

“Need a hand?” he asked, already stepping in like he wasn’t waiting for permission.

You shook your head, barely glancing over your shoulder. “Almost done.”

Still, he moved beside you, picking up a dish towel and drying what you handed off without a word. For a minute or so, that was all it was. Quiet movements, the occasional clink of ceramic. 

Then Chan spoke, still not looking at you.

“Tonight’s been nice.”

You hummed in agreement. “Jeongin’s place has good energy.”

“That, or he hides the chaos well.”

You smiled faintly. “He does put effort into pretending he doesn’t try.”

Chan laughed under his breath, low and knowing. “Takes one to know one.”

You handed him the last bowl, the water now running clear. The sink hissed as you turned it off, wiping your hands on a nearby towel. For a second, it felt like that was it. Like maybe he’d nod, thank you, walk back out to the others.

But he stayed where he was. Still leaned against the counter, his expression thoughtful. Something quiet passed behind his eyes before he spoke again.

“You’ve been kinda… quiet tonight,” he said, carefully. “Not in a bad way. Just… not all here.”

You didn’t answer right away. It wasn’t the kind of question you could dodge, but it also wasn’t the kind that demanded anything specific. So you just leaned back against the edge of the sink, arms folded loosely over your stomach, and looked at the countertop.

“I think I’ve been stuck in my own head,” you said eventually.

Chan didn’t press. He waited, the way people only do when they care.

“It’s not like anything’s wrong, exactly. I’ve just been feeling…” You trailed off, trying to find the right shape for it. “Small. Lately.”

He tilted his head a little, brows drawing together. “Small how?”

You breathed out through your nose. “Like I’m not enough. For someone. Or even just… in general. Like there’s this version of me I keep trying to show up as, and sometimes I’m close, but sometimes it just feels like I’m cosplaying. And I can’t tell if that means I’m changing or faking it.”

Chan was quiet for a moment, his thumb rubbing lightly along the seam of the dish towel in his hands.

“Is this about Hyunjin?” he asked, gently.

You hesitated, then nodded. “Not in the way people probably think it is. It’s not… about him, not really. It’s how I feel when I’m around him. How I start second-guessing everything I say, everything I do. He never asks me to. He’s never unkind. But I keep wondering when I’m going to mess it up. When he’s going to realize I’m just…” You faltered, then finished in a breath, “someone he thinks is better than I am.”

Chan’s voice came quiet. “You think he’s looking for perfect?”

“I think I’m scared he’ll see how not-perfect I am. And maybe decide that’s enough reason not to stay.”

That landed in the space between you, soft but heavy. You didn’t mean for it to sound so fragile. It just was.

Chan nodded slowly, resting his arms along the edge of the counter. “Can I say something kind of lame?”

You gave him a look. “You’re asking me?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Fair.”

He let a small pause bloom between you before speaking.

“I think… the hardest thing isn’t showing up as the version of yourself you want to be. It’s showing up as who you actually are, even on the days you’re not proud of it. Especially then.” His voice stayed low, but there was conviction there. “If someone’s gonna love you, they have to meet you where you are. Not just where you shine.”

You looked at him, quiet.

“And sometimes,” he added, “we think we’re failing just because we’re feeling more than we’re used to. Doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong. Doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

You let that settle in.

Then, from the doorway, Chaeryeong’s voice chimed in, casual, like she’d only caught the last part but still meant every word.

“He’s right, you know.”

You turned to see Chaeryeong leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, her expression open. Warm.

“If you weren’t enough,” she said simply, “you wouldn’t be this scared of losing something real. You feel this way because you care. That’s not nothing.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It wrapped around the three of you like a blanket someone forgot to fold. Loose, lived-in.

You let out a breath of a laugh, brushing your fingers along your temple.

“You two suck at lighthearted kitchen chats.”

Chan arched a brow. “You’re the one who started washing dishes like it was a metaphor.”

Chaeryeong grinned. “Come on. Jisung’s trying to freestyle over the Little Nightmares soundtrack and Jeongin’s threatening to throw him out.”

You nodded, eyes a little shinier than before. “Okay. Just a sec.”

They both left without needing to say more.

And you stayed for a moment longer, letting your reflection blur in the kitchen window, letting the echo of their words settle somewhere soft in your chest. Then you turned off the light and followed the sound of laughter back into the room.

‎

‎ ‎ [A year ago, campus housing]

The air in the dorm was thick. Thicker than the humid nights Hyunjin had grown up with, thicker than the weight that sat in his chest whenever things felt off and he couldn’t name why. It didn’t move. It just sat there, low and oppressive, like it had been waiting. The kind of heat that had nothing to do with weather and everything to do with what was about to break.

Julie stood across from him, arms crossed tight like she’d been bracing for this all day. Her mouth was set, not trembling, not apologizing. Just drawn into that flat, unreadable line she always pulled when she wanted to win something. A conversation. An argument. The upper hand.

Hyunjin’s hand twitched at his side. He wasn’t sure when the shouting had started. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe everything just got louder inside his head until it spilled out without meaning to.

“Are you even listening to me, Julie?”

His voice cracked. Not out of anger, not entirely. It sounded too raw to be that. It echoed around the small room, bouncing off the barren walls like it didn’t belong to either of them. Her face didn’t change. Not really. If anything, her eyes sharpened, like she was waiting for the next thing to get annoyed at.

“No,” she snapped, like it was obvious. “Not when you’re saying shit like that to my face.”

Something in him pulled taut. His shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched, and for a second, all he could do was stare at her like he was seeing someone else entirely. He wasn’t the type to raise his voice. He hated it. Hated how it made him feel afterward. Gutted, guilty, spent. But this… this was something else. This was the kind of hurt that didn’t have a neat place to go.

He stepped forward before he could stop himself, voice low now, rough with disbelief. “So that’s it? We’re just going to pretend those messages didn’t exist?”

Julie didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. She shifted her weight slightly, like she was tired of standing. Like this whole thing was dragging out longer than she thought it would.

“I already told you,” she muttered. “It’s not what you think.”

He laughed once. Short, bitter, humorless. Ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands at the root like it might keep him from saying something worse.

“You told your friends you were using me.” The words came out quieter this time, but sharper. Cleaner. Like a blade.

Julie’s mouth tightened. Her gaze flicked, just briefly, off to the side. That was all it took. A small, reflexive tic. But he caught it.

And in that sliver of a second, he felt it: the shift. That maybe she hadn’t expected him to find out. That maybe she thought she could talk her way around it, just like before.

He took a breath, trying to steady the part of him that was shaking. “You told me you loved me.”

The silence that followed stretched thin, pulling taut between them. She didn’t respond. Just looked down at her nails for a second, then back up like she was waiting for this to end.

“Was that bullshit too?” he asked, softer now. And that softness, that ache in his voice, was the worst part of it. He hated how small he sounded. Hated how much of himself still wanted her to say no.

But she didn’t.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Her voice was flat. Unmoved. Like he was asking too much from someone who had already given him everything they were willing to part with.

And maybe that was true. Maybe she had never intended to give him anything real in the first place.

Hyunjin swallowed. His hands were cold now. Everything in him recoiled, slow and silent. He looked at her. Not at her face, but at the distance between them. At the absence of something that should’ve been there.

He thought she was the one thing he hadn’t ruined. That even in the middle of everything else falling apart—assignments he couldn’t finish, expectations he couldn’t meet, friendships that slipped through the cracks like sand—she was the one thing that felt solid.

And she let him believe that. Let him pour himself into her, piece by piece, even when she had no intention of holding it.

“You didn’t love me,” he said, not accusing anymore. Just filling in the empty spaces. “You loved the attention. You loved knowing someone would pick up when he wouldn’t.”

Julie didn’t deny it. Not out loud.

She just looked away, toward the window. Always the window. And something in him broke for good. He felt it go. The last thread between them, so thin it didn’t even make a sound.

“Was any of it real?”

It came out small. Like something he already knew the answer to. Julie’s eyes flickered again, briefly, and maybe it was guilt. Maybe not. But she didn’t answer. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t even say no.

She said nothing.

And silence is the cruelest kind of confirmation.

He nodded, slowly, as if his body had finally caught up to what his heart had already figured out. Everything in him hurt. But it was a quiet kind of pain now. A steady, dull thing.

He memorized the shape of it. Her standing there, arms still crossed, face turned away like this wasn’t worth her full attention. Like it was easier not to see the damage if you didn’t look at it directly.

“Right,” he said, and it was the only thing left. No anger. No desperation. Just the clean, hollow sound of acceptance.

He turned toward the door, his feet moving through something heavy. He paused, hand on the knob, still stupid enough, still human enough, to wait. Just in case she said his name.

Just in case she said anything.

But the room was quiet. Too quiet. Just the dull whir of the air conditioner and the sound of his own breath shaking in his throat.

So he left.

Didn’t look back. Didn’t check if she turned to watch him go. He didn’t want to know.

The door clicked shut behind him. That was the only sound left. One final punctuation mark at the end of something he’d been trying to hold onto with bloody hands.

And just like that, it was over.

𐪞

‎ ‎ ‎ Sometimes Hyunjin wondered if there was a word for it. That strange, hollow weight certain memories carried.

Not the loud ones. Not the ones that came with fireworks or shouting or door slams. Just the ones that hung in the air long after they were done. The kind that folded themselves into your ribs, quiet and permanent, like furniture rearranged in a room you barely recognized anymore.

After Julie, everything felt like that. Not sharp, not dramatic. Just... dulled. Like life had been turned down a few notches and left humming in the background.

He never really told people how bad it got. How the walls of his room started to feel like they were pressing in. How his own voice sounded foreign when it cracked down the middle from trying too hard not to cry. How there were nights when the silence swallowed him whole and spit him back out with shaking hands and swollen eyes.

Chan was the only one who ever saw him like that. Really saw him. Sat next to him on the floor when it all caved in, a takeout box unopened between them, his hand resting gently on Hyunjin’s shoulder like it could hold him together. He didn’t say much. Didn’t have to. Just passed him a tissue when the tears came again, and said, “You’re not weak for feeling it.”

That helped. Not all at once, not in a movie-moment kind of way. But enough to breathe again.

And now, he’s here. Not broken, but not whole either. Just quieter. Still soft in the places that matter. Still watching the world with those wide, wondering eyes like he’s waiting for it to surprise him.

Because that’s the thing about Hyunjin. He’s always seen the bigger picture. While most people rush through moments, he lingers. Notices the way light spills through half-closed blinds and paints shifting patterns on the floor. The way strangers on trains unconsciously mirror each other’s posture, like some quiet choreography playing out in real time. He notices the poetry in things others overlook.

He’s the kind who gets lost in thought mid-conversation, not because he isn’t listening, but because a part of him is busy folding the moment into something sacred. A hopeless romantic, not in the rose-colored sense, but in the way he believes there’s meaning tucked into everything. Every word, every glance, every almost.

He used to fall in love with the idea of people long before he truly knew them. Built whole lives from passing glances, imagined conversations spun from nothing, fell hard for moments that barely existed. And the thing is, he always knew better. But knowing didn’t stop him from wanting.

He doesn’t say it aloud, but sometimes, when the night stretches long and quiet, he wonders if that’s why the hurt always feels so sharp. So intimate. 

Because he opens doors too wide, too soon. Because he takes people at their word, believes in the good before it’s proven. And lately, he’s been questioning if maybe love, real love, isn’t found in grand gestures or loud confessions.

Maybe it’s softer than that. Maybe it’s a presence that lingers after the noise fades. A warmth that doesn’t demand attention, but never leaves. And lately, almost without meaning to, his thoughts keep circling back to you.

He didn’t mean to think about you so often. Didn’t mean for your name to come up when nothing in the conversation had anything to do with you. But it did. In the way someone mentioned your favorite drink. In the way the wind picked up a loose thread from his coat and reminded him of that afternoon you stood beside him at the crosswalk, too absorbed in your playlist to notice the world was already watching.

You never did try to be anything for anyone. That’s what he noticed first. The ease in your silence. The way you didn’t fill it with empty words. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sudden. It was just there. Your presence, slipping in until it felt like it had always been part of his day.

Some nights, when the city is too loud or too quiet, he lies on his back and lets his thoughts run. Wonders what version of his life he’d be living if Julie hadn’t said what she said. If he hadn’t walked out. If he hadn’t met you.

He doesn’t regret leaving. Not even for a second.

But he does think about what came after. The silence. The rebuilding. The cautious way he started laughing again. And how, eventually, it wasn’t just Chan who pulled him back.

It was you, too, without even trying.

He doesn’t know what this is. What it could become. He’s afraid to name it, to hold it too tightly and watch it slip between his fingers. But it’s there, anyway. In the small moments. In the pauses between words. In the part of his chest that doesn’t hurt as much when you’re around.

And that has to mean something. Even if he’s not sure what yet.

Maybe that’s why, days later, he found himself sitting across from you, tucked away in a restaurant he hadn’t meant to find.

It had been one of those nights, wandering with his hood up, earbuds in, the city folding and unfolding around him in quiet waves. He passed by the place without noticing at first. Then doubled back. The windows were fogged over, the light inside low and warm. There was something about it. Something soft. He took a photo of the front and sent it to himself with no caption. Just in case.

The message sat in his notes for three days.

He wrote it once, then rewrote it. Took out the heart emoji. Added a period. Deleted the period because it suddenly felt like too much. The blinking caret stared back at him like it knew he was stalling. Like it was waiting for him to stop lying to himself.

Eventually, he just sent:

hey, wanna try this place i found? food’s good, i think you’d like it :)

No extras. No expectations. Just enough to leave the door open. He hit send before he could lose his nerve, flipped his phone face-down on the bed, and tried to distract himself by pretending to clean his room. Mostly just moving clothes from one end to the other and half-heartedly looking for something to wear.

You replied eleven minutes later.

sure. when?

That was all. But it was more than enough to keep him from spiraling. It was a yes.

By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, his room looked like a battlefield—sweaters tossed over chairs, half-folded jackets strewn like fallen soldiers, the floor littered with evidence of indecision.

Nothing felt right. Everything was either too casual or trying too hard. He changed twice, then a third time, then circled back to the first option. In the end, he settled on the black sweater. The one worn soft from years of late nights and train rides. Frayed at the cuffs. The kind of thing he wore when he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be.

The wireframe glasses came next. Not really for vision, more for image. They made him feel grounded. Like someone who hadn’t spent twenty minutes pacing in front of a mirror. A silver chain, subtle but intentional, rested against his collarbone. His hair wouldn’t cooperate no matter what he did, so he stopped trying, letting it fall into his eyes.

Chan lounged at the edge of the bed, legs crossed like a retired stylist on break, phone in one hand, canned coffee in the other, offering commentary without being asked.

“Don’t slouch. Wear cologne. The soft one. And stop checking your phone—she said yes. She’s not gonna ghost you in the next ten minutes.”

Hyunjin made a face. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Nope,” Chan said cheerfully. “Also, bring mints.”

Meanwhile, your room wasn’t much better.

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. Said it out loud. Twice. Just to hear it bounce back like it might stick this time. Just dinner. Just food and conversation. Just two people going to a place and walking back separately. That’s it.

You repeated it like a mantra while tearing through your closet like it had personally offended you. Sweaters hit the bed like confessions. Nothing looked right.

Still, you tried to keep your cool. Tried not to check your reflection every five minutes. Tried not to smooth invisible creases out of your sleeves like your nerves were stitched into the seams. You told yourself it wasn’t nerves. Just habit. Just something your body did when your heart got loud.

Chaeryeong was on facetime the whole time, half-buried in her pillow, chewing something and watching with her patented judgment-disguised-as-apathy expression.

“Leave your hair alone,” she mumbled.

“I’m not touching it.”

“You are.”

You sighed and reached for your lip balm.

“I swear, if you change your top one more time—”

“I’m not—”

“You are. One more outfit and I’m hanging up.”

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

Somewhere in the chaos, the group chat had lit up like a warning flare. Jisung had decided, completely unprompted, that this was a date and was now sending unhinged emoji combos by the minute.

good luck tonight 💅😳🖤👀

Changbin, for some reason, was now deep-diving Hyunjin’s social media and sending timestamped screenshots with wildly fake personality analyses.

You muted the chat for your own survival. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe it wasn’t a date. Technically, that was the truth. But also… that kind of missed the point.

Whatever it was, it mattered. Enough to make your hands restless. Enough to make you care. Enough to make you wonder what it meant that he’d asked you.

By the time you stepped out the door, the sky had already dipped into indigo. That early kind of twilight where the world feels in-between. Half-awake, half-dreaming. You didn’t rush. There was no reason to. The plan was simple: meet him at the restaurant. That’s all. 

But then fate, or something like it, stepped in.

The train rolled into the station just as you reached the bottom of the stairs, its doors sliding open like they’d been waiting just for you. You stepped inside through the nearest set, eyes down, thoughts already drifting ahead, imagining how the night might go—

And walked straight into someone.

“Oh—sorry—” you said automatically, the word halfway out before your gaze lifted.

Hyunjin had come in from the opposite side, head lowered like he hadn’t expected to see anyone familiar. His eyes widened slightly, just enough to register surprise, but not enough to make it awkward.

You stood there, caught in the slow current of passengers drifting past, neither of you moving, not just yet.

Then—

“Hi,” he said.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it settled into you like it belonged there.

“Hi,” you echoed, the smile forming before you could stop it.

You slid into the nearest seat, and he followed without hesitation, settling beside you like it had always been the plan. Like this moment had been penciled into the day, just waiting to be discovered.

His shoulder brushed yours as he adjusted his sweater, a quiet shift. He glanced over, just once, his lips curving slightly, like this coincidence was something he’d secretly wished for but hadn’t dared to expect.

He was definitely writing about this on Hotline later.

The train lurched forward, and still, neither of you moved away. No words at first. Just silence, thick and alive with all the things neither of you needed to say yet.

Outside, the tunnels swallowed the world whole. Black walls and blinking lights replaced the cityscape, leaving you inside a capsule of motion and stillness. Your reflections ghosted across the glass, blurred by movement and streaks of passing light. You were aware of every small thing—

The steady rhythm of the train beneath your feet.

The scent of his cologne. Cedarwood and something softer tonight, like rain evaporating off pavement.

He looked good. Not in the practiced, “trying” kind of way, but in the way people do when they feel most like themselves.

Clean layers. Soft knits. A hint of silver at his collar. Glasses he only wore when he forgot to think too hard. You turned slightly, letting your gaze linger for half a second longer than you probably should’ve.

He caught it. Met your eyes.

“You look nice,” he said, quieter than the train.

You blinked. He wasn’t smiling, not fully. His mouth curved at the edges like he regretted saying it, but didn’t want to take it back either.

And still, he meant it.

You looked down, the smile finding its way onto your face anyway.

“You too,” you said, and you meant that, too.

He looked away first, but not far. Just enough to settle into the seat beside you again. And you leaned back, close but not touching, feeling the air shift with every turn the train made.

The rest of the ride passed in silence, but not the empty kind.

It was the kind that filled in all the quiet spaces. The kind that said I see you, even without the words.

And now, you’re sitting across from him, warmth pooling around your table as the low hum of the restaurant folds in around you.

The place doesn’t try too hard. 

The lights are soft, drawn low enough to feel like dusk even indoors. The ceiling bulbs flicker gently, casting halos onto the worn tables, while faint music flows under the quiet clatter of forks and conversations too low to catch. 

The air smells faintly of grilled meat and something sweet, maybe burnt sugar, drifting from the kitchen. The window beside you is fogged at the edges. A contrast to the cold slipping through the seams of the city just beyond the glass.

Hyunjin reaches for the water pitcher and pours into both glasses, fingers steady even though his pulse isn’t. You watch the way his hands move. Precise, a little careful, like he’s focusing on the smallest task so his nerves don’t give him away. 

He slides your glass toward you, thumb brushing the condensation as he lets go.

“Thanks,” you say softly, breaking the surface of the silence.

He nods, eyes flicking up for a second, then back to the table like he wasn’t quite ready to be caught looking. “You been here before?”

You shake your head, curling your fingers loosely around the cool glass.

“I found it by accident,” he says. “Weeks ago, maybe longer. Didn’t go in. Just… saved the spot.”

You raise an eyebrow, half smiling. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales through his nose and shrugs, like he’s considering if the truth would sound too much.

“Felt like the kind of place I’d want to come back to. With someone.”

That’s all he says. Nothing dressed up. But it lands anyway.

The server takes your orders and disappears, leaving just the two of you again, seated across a narrow table, both pretending not to notice how close the space feels. 

Hyunjin shifts slightly, settling into the seat like he’s still figuring out how to sit in front of you. 

One arm rests along the edge of the table, fingers tracing absent-minded circles around the base of his water glass. The other drifts up to adjust the wire-thin frames on his nose, then drops back into his lap. You notice—he doesn’t check his phone. Neither do you. 

You glance over the rim of your glass. “What did you eat today?”

He blinks at the question, caught off guard. Then scoffs, lips quirking upward. “What is this, a wellness check?”

“Sort of. I’m trying to gauge how weird your order’s about to be.”

“Rude,” he mutters, but he’s smiling now. “Okay… cereal.”

You raise a brow.

“But like—a healthy cereal. With almonds. Fiber and stuff.”

“That’s not a meal. That’s bird food.”

“It had protein.”

“So do actual meals.”

He narrows his eyes, mock-offended. “Okay, then. What did you eat?”

“I plead the fifth.”

He huffs, triumphant. “That’s what I thought.”

Your drinks arrive—his red wine, your cocktail. You clink glasses without a word. No toast. No performance. Just a soft, familiar tap of glass to glass, like this is something you’ve done before. 

He takes a sip, thoughtful, then nods toward your drink. “Is it good?”

You slide it across the table without answering. He tries it, then returns it just as easily, no comment, no hesitation. Like the kind of thing you do on instinct. Like the kind of thing you don’t think twice about.

There’s a faint trace of gloss on the rim now. You notice it. You pretend you don’t.

When the food arrives, the atmosphere softens even further. The clink of silverware, the low thread of music humming under the conversation, the murmur of voices from nearby tables. It all folds into the background like the night has exhaled. The table feels smaller. Not cramped. Just… closer. More intentional.

Mid-bite, you gesture toward his plate. “Is that the truffle thing?”

He nods, still chewing, already reaching for his glass.

“You hate mushrooms.”

“Truffle’s not—” He pauses, sighs, defeated. “Yeah. Okay. I’m learning things.”

You reach across the table and take a bite from his plate. No warning. No explanation. Just muscle memory.

He watches it happen. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t protest. Just lets it unfold, like this is something you’ve done before, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s good,” you declare, mouth half-full. “A little rich, though.”

“You just ate half my dinner.”

“For science.”

“You’re exhausting.”

You grin, hiding it behind your napkin. He laughs, quiet and easy, thumb running along the edge of his glass as he looks at you, like he’s adding this to some private catalogue in his head.

Conversation meanders, through half-serious debates, fake hypotheticals, and stories that lose their point halfway through. You find yourselves laughing over a class neither of you even care about, which somehow leads into a saga about someone in Hyunjin’s building who tried to organize a “silent hallway hour” via the group chat.

Hyunjin has thoughts. Strong ones.

“You can’t just mandate silence after 8 p.m.,” he says, shaking his head like he’s personally leading the resistance. “That’s not wellness. That’s fascism.”

You snort, trying to stifle a grin. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“I live there. I have rights.”

The laugh escapes before you can stop it. Loud and full, the kind that makes your shoulders shake and your eyes crinkle shut. The kind that starts in your chest and refuses to be polite about it. You lean back in your chair, hand half-covering your face, trying to breathe through it, failing spectacularly.

When you peek up, Hyunjin’s watching you.

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

Not right away.

There’s a slow tug at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile too much, but failing just a little. A soft, crooked grin creeps across his face, like he’s quietly proud of himself for making you laugh like that. 

Then his gaze drops. Thumb tracing the rim of his water glass. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the warmth still rising in his chest.

The conversation trails off. Not into awkwardness, into quiet.

A good kind. One that settles around you like a blanket. One that doesn’t demand anything.

You both pick at what’s left on your plates. He nudges his toward you without a word. You steal another bite, shamelessly this time. He doesn’t blink. Just lets you.

You slide your drink over to him without thinking. He finishes it slowly, still listening to you talk, still half-listening to the hum of the restaurant around you. No commentary, no question. Just an easy exchange. It’s only when he pushes the empty glass back in your direction that you realize what happened.

You raise an eyebrow, slow and theatrical.

“What?” he says, all innocence, as if he didn’t just finish your entire drink like it belonged to him.

“You finished it.”

His mouth drops open in mock offense. “You gave it to me.”

“Temporarily.”

“I was doing you a favor.”

“You’re very generous.”

“I try.”

The restaurant has dipped into that quiet lull. After the plates have cleared, after the noise of dinner has thinned out into murmurs and clinking glassware. Most people are lingering now. Not eating. Just being.

And you feel it too. How your limbs have gone soft and loose, how the air between you feels warmer than the candlelight alone can explain. It’s not just the drinks. It’s this. It’s him.

Hyunjin leans his cheek into his hand, eyes on the flickering candle between you.

“Would’ve been weird if we hadn’t run into each other on the train,” he says suddenly, voice softer now.

You nod, slowly. “Yeah.”

“But also… not weird. I don’t know.”

You tilt your head, watching the candle melt lower. “It felt like something that was gonna happen anyway. Even if we didn’t plan it.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Then drops his gaze again, like the words sat too heavy in his chest to carry all the way out.

Neither of you finishes the last bite.

You lean back, the candle burned nearly to its base. Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, someone laughs too loudly. Outside, the windows have fogged again, softening the edges of the world. Inside, the two of you stay still a little longer than necessary.

The server comes and goes quietly, clearing the plates and dropping the check without a word. Neither of you reaches for it. Not yet. You’re both sunk back into your chairs, the weight of the night pressing gently down like a hand on your shoulders. Standing up feels like an idea someone else should think about.

Hyunjin takes another sip of his wine, still nursing it like he’s not quite ready for the night to tip into whatever comes next. The candle between you has burned low, casting soft shadows that flicker across his face.

“You’re definitely tipsy,” you murmur, watching him with a tilt to your head.

He scoffs. “You’re tipsy.”

“Am not.”

“You just narrated my wine pour in your head. I saw it happening.”

You stifle a grin behind your glass. “It was elegant. Deserved a voiceover.”

He lets out a laugh, soft and surprised, eyes flicking to the fogged-up window before settling on you again. “You always do that,” he says, quiet, not teasing. Just observing.

“Do what?”

“Say stuff like that. Like it’s a joke. But not really.”

You set your glass down gently, meeting his eyes. “Maybe I mean it.”

He watches you for a beat, something shifting behind his gaze. “Maybe you do,” he says, softer now. He bites the inside of his cheek, like he’s already second-guessing himself, but doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t try to smooth it over.

The quiet that follows isn’t uncomfortable. But it’s different. Heavier. Charged with something new.

And then, like it just slips out of him:

“I like you.”

You blink. “Right now?”

He smiles, slow and a little sheepish. “No. I mean… generally.”

“Oh.”

He shrugs one shoulder, looking down as he fidgets with the edge of his napkin. “Just figured I’d say it before I changed my mind and pretended I didn’t.”

You study him for a moment. The way his ears are slightly pink now. The way his knee is still pressed lightly against yours under the table. The way he won’t meet your eyes, but doesn’t move away either.

“I like you too,” you say. Soft, steady, like it’s weather. Like it’s always been true. He looks up, eyes searching.

“No offense,” you add, a grin tugging at your mouth, “but it’s been kind of obvious.”

His mouth twitches. “Wow.”

“I mean, you gave me half your dinner.”

“You stole it.”

“Semantics.”

He laughs again, low and real. You’re both smiling now, soft, a little glassy-eyed. There’s no act to it. No edge. Just the relief of the truth finally being spoken.

“I’m blaming this on the wine in the morning,” he mutters.

“You haven’t even had that much.”

“I know. That’s the worst part.”

You tap your fingers gently against the base of your glass. The candle between you flickers low, its flame thinning like it’s growing tired, like even the light knows the night is winding down. The quiet has returned, but it’s not empty.

It’s full of breath. Of waiting. Of things almost said.

You tilt your head slightly, voice low, casual. Too casual to be accidental.

“Are you gonna kiss me?”

His eyes lift to meet yours. Wide, but not startled. More like surprised by how easily the question left your mouth, like you’d asked if he wanted to split dessert or stay a little longer. No hesitation, no edge. Just curiosity.

“Do you want me to?”

You shrug, but your gaze doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“Maybe.”

Something shifts between you. Subtle. Like the moment inhales.

He leans forward, slow, careful. Like he’s giving you time to pull back. To say just kidding and laugh it off.

But you don’t.

And when he kisses you, it’s not fireworks. Not fireworks at all.

It’s quiet. Intentional. A touch of warmth, like the space between your faces had always been meant to close this way. It’s brief, almost unsure at first, like you’re both testing the weight of it. But then you lean in without meaning to, and his hand grazes your cheek, gentle and grounding. Like he didn’t plan it, only knew he needed to do it the second it happened.

You both pull back at the same time. Just a breath’s distance. And neither of you says anything. You don’t have to.

You’re still smiling, but not the kind of smile that comes from adrenaline or surprise. It’s the other kind. The softer kind. Like everything inside you just clicked into place.

Okay. Settled.

Hyunjin exhales, long and quiet, like he’s been holding that breath since the appetizers. He leans back in his chair, barely biting back a smile.

“Okay. Yeah. We’re blaming that on the wine.”

“Obviously.”

He raises an eyebrow, the smirk creeping back in. “But just to be clear, if you steal food off my plate again, that kiss is now the price.”

You snort, resting your elbow on the table. “That’s extortion.”

“It’s fair.”

“I’d do it anyway.”

He lets out a soft laugh and tosses his napkin onto the table in defeat, like the matter’s settled. His grin hangs on his lips, lazy and crooked, like it’s not leaving anytime soon.

The candle gutters out.

You don’t move. Not yet.

The quiet folds in around you again, but it feels warmer now. The restaurant hums softly in the background. Murmured voices, clinking glass, someone laughing two tables over. 

Eventually—

“Who’s paying the bill?” you ask, voice low and syrupy, like you’ve just remembered the concept of money exists.

Hyunjin raises a brow, amused. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

You smirk. “I’m already winning.”

“You kissed me. That’s cheating.”

“I kissed you back. Big difference.”

He groans dramatically, grabbing the check like it wounded him. “Unbelievable.”

You smile, sitting back in your chair, watching him. Letting him.

Outside the window, the city keeps moving. Lights flicker. A bus hisses to a stop. People pass by with takeout bags and lives you'll never know. But right now, in this tiny pocket of time, you're not missing any of it.

𐪞

You leave the restaurant slowly, like you’ve both forgotten how to move with purpose. The air outside has cooled, but not in a way that urges you in. It’s the kind of night that hums instead of buzzes.

The sidewalks are mostly empty. Streetlamps spill their gold onto the pavement in wide, soft circles. You fall into step beside him without thinking.

At some point, Hyunjin slips his hands into his pockets, bumping your shoulder lightly as you walk. You nudge him back without a word. He grins sideways, the corners of his mouth still caught in that same half-smile from dinner.

“Your train’s this way, right?” he asks, tipping his head toward the station.

You nod, and he follows. No hesitation.

The station is nearly empty now. Just the low, echoing hum of the tracks far below, like the city’s breathing in its sleep. You move toward the platform, stopping just shy of the yellow line, and he stops with you. Not too close. Just enough that the warmth between you doesn’t feel accidental anymore.

“I still think you cheated,” he murmurs suddenly.

You look up at him, a brow raised. “On what?”

“Winning the bill standoff.”

“You let me.”

“I was being a gentleman.”

“No,” you say, eyes narrowing playfully. “You were being defeated.”

He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he’s going to argue but decides not to. The train rattles into view before either of you speaks again, all noise and light and cold metal sighs.

Inside, the car’s nearly empty. Just a few passengers scattered like ghosts. You slide into the corner seat on the long bench, curling slightly toward the window. Hyunjin sits beside you, close. Close enough that his knee touches yours, and this time, he doesn’t move away.

There’s a kind of lightness between you now. Not drunken, not giddy. Just a quiet buzz. Post-confession. Post-kiss. That sweet, suspended warmth after I like you has landed in the air and found a home.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just lets the moment settle. Then his pinky grazes yours. A brush so light it could’ve been nothing.

But it isn’t.

So you turn your hand over, slow and certain. Let your fingers slip into his. He looks down, blinking like he’s not sure he’s allowed to smile that wide. But he does. A little dazed. A little undone.

Neither of you speak. Two stops pass like that. Quiet and full.

When the train slows again, brakes hissing against the tunnel walls, you bump your shoulder against his. “This is me.”

He stands without question. Follows.

The walk from the station is short. Four blocks, maybe. You talk the whole way. Tell him about your cursed laundry room. The dryer door that only closes if you whisper affirmations to it first.

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were.”

He laughs, loud and sudden, and nearly trips over the curb, which only makes you laugh, too.

By the time you reach your building, you’re both still catching your breath. You swipe your key card, and the front door clicks open with a soft beep. No roommates. No lights on. Just the warm, familiar quiet waiting inside.

“Home sweet home,” you say, flicking on the light low.

Hyunjin steps in behind you, slow, eyes scanning the space like he’s committing it to memory. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. Just slips off his shoes and lines them up neatly by the door before following you into the small living room.

You both ease down onto the couch, angled toward each other but not quite touching yet. You tuck your legs underneath you, settling against the armrest. Hyunjin mirrors the motion a beat later, his knee brushing lightly against yours as he leans in just enough to close the gap.

He glances over, voice soft. “Is this okay?”

You smile, the kind that doesn’t need effort. “Hyunjin. You’re here. You’re fine.”

He exhales like he’s been waiting for that answer since the train.

His hand drifts to your knee, fingers tracing idle shapes there. Not asking. Just existing. Your hand finds his again, thumb brushing the ridge of his knuckles, and for a second, you both just… stay.

The silence isn’t heavy. It hums. Light, like the kind of quiet that only happens when two people are finally still in the same place. You both laugh at the same time. Half surprise, half nerves, and it breaks the air open in the gentlest way.

“You’re looking at me like I’m supposed to do something,” he murmurs, smile curving.

“You’re the one who kissed me first.”

“Oh, so this is my fault now?”

“I didn’t say that.” You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “But you’re not exactly innocent.”

He tries not to laugh. Tries and fails.

And then he kisses you again.

This one lands differently. Longer, slower. Not rushed, but more sure. You respond without thinking, hands curling into the collar of his sweater, pulling him a breath closer. He still smells like cedarwood, but now there’s something familiar layered beneath it. Your shampoo, maybe, from earlier. It makes you smile against his mouth.

You pull back slightly, noses brushing, and he’s already smiling too. A little dazed.

“This is probably the weirdest version of a first date I’ve ever had,” you say softly.

“Weird how?”

“Weird you’re still here.” You trail your fingers lightly along the edge of his jaw. “But I don’t hate it.”

That earns a quiet laugh, low and real. He slides his hand to your waist, this time letting it settle there like he means to. Not hesitant. Not waiting for permission.

Still, no one names this. You don’t have to.

You’re already leaning in again, both of you grinning against kisses that refuse to stay brief. They deepen gradually, like falling asleep with someone warm beside you. Natural. Unforced. Gravity, not urgency.

His hands drift, one finding your waist, the other threading through your hair, and the way he moves feels intentional. Affectionate. Like he’s not just reacting, but listening to every breath you make, every sound that catches in your throat when his fingers trace a little slower, a little lower.

You break apart again, breathless, eyes still closed for a second longer than necessary.

“I’m still blaming the wine,” he whispers, forehead almost touching yours.

“You didn’t even finish it.”

“Tragic.”

You nudge his chest. He catches your wrist, presses a kiss there. Just one, soft and brief, then lets it fall back to your lap.

What happens next isn’t a moment so much as a shift. A quiet agreement passed between glances and proximity. A warmth already set in motion.

You stand up, fingers curling into his sleeve as you lead him down the short hallway toward your room.

You’re both laughing a little too much, stumbling over your own shoes in the low light, trying not to knock into the desk or your bookshelf or each other. And somewhere in the shuffle, Hyunjin’s hands find your waist, fingertips settling like he’s been waiting to hold you like this.

The laughter fades, but the smile lingers.

“I can’t believe we actually—” you start, but trail off when he presses his forehead to yours instead. Close, quiet. Not rushing you. Just there.

His mouth brushes your jaw, then the edge of your cheek. Gentle. Familiar. Like he’s learning you through smaller places, softer angles.

You thread your fingers into the back of his sweater, pulling him in. He exhales near your temple, hands sliding to your hips, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt.

He pauses just enough to meet your eyes. “Still good?”

You nod, sure. “Yeah. Still good.”

His hands lift the fabric slowly, giving you time. When he sees no hesitation, he helps you out of it completely. The rest follows—yours and his, layers exchanged for something quieter.

It’s not rushed. Not perfect. He laughs under his breath when he nearly loses balance trying to toe off his socks, and you giggle as you set his glasses gently on your desk.

“Do I look better now?” he asks, breathless.

You give him a look. “You look like someone I probably should’ve kissed ages ago.”

That stops him for a beat. Then he smiles, small, and leans in again, this time letting his mouth find your shoulder instead.

The backs of your knees hit the bed, and you sink down together. Slow, careful. He watches you as you lie back, gaze lingering like he’s memorizing something.

And when he touches you, it’s not rushed or greedy. Just intentional. He trails soft kisses down your collarbone, the curve of your chest, the space just beneath. Every movement feels like a question he already knows the answer to, but still asks, just in case.

His hands find your thighs, grounding and gentle, fingers playing lightly with the lace at your hips. When he settles between them, he looks up first, checking, always checking.

You nod. And then—he simply ruins you. Not with urgency, but with care.

He takes his time. Draws down the last layer with slow precision, every movement unhurried. He kisses the skin around your thighs first, following your breath like a guide. When his mouth finds you, it’s with quiet purpose.

There’s a moment. Your fingers threading tighter in his hair, your breath catching on a whispered “Don’t stop.” And he doesn’t, not even close.

It’s not showy or a performance. It’s honest.

And when you fall apart beneath him, he doesn’t speak. He just stays there, kissing the inside of your thigh with a slow steadiness, forehead resting against your skin like he’s letting the moment settle in his bones. His breath slows. Yours does too.

You tug him back up, not into a kiss, but into you. Into the soft space between bodies that don’t need to explain anything. Your foreheads press together. His hand finds yours, and your fingers lace without effort.

He stills when you do that. Looks at you like he’s not sure what you’re asking, but knows he’s already saying yes.

You don’t say a word. Just shift a little closer.

It’s enough.

There’s no tension, no second-guessing. Just two people meeting somewhere in the middle. Letting the quiet between them stretch into something fuller. He exhales, shoulders relaxing, and lets you guide him without resistance. His touch stays soft, deliberate, like this isn’t new, just unspoken until now.

And when it happens, when the rest of the space disappears, it doesn’t feel like something decided. It feels natural. Like the next line in a sentence you’ve both been writing together all night.

He moves with you, not over you. Present, open, giving. A kiss to your shoulder. A thumb brushing your knuckles. A hand steadying your waist with reverence, not control. It’s not about pace or pressure or performance. It’s about attention. The kind of closeness that knows how to listen.

And when your breath catches, a laugh halfway tangled in a gasp, he smiles through it, like he understands exactly what that means. He doesn’t pull back. He stays with you, mouth warm against your jaw, and you let him.

By the time it’s over, the air between you is quiet again. But not empty. Just full in a different way. You stay where you are, still tangled up, still touching. You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

Afterward, you're both half-buried in blankets. Legs tangled beneath the sheets. The kind of closeness that makes it hard to tell where one person ends and the other begins. Your breaths have finally evened out. The air between you hums with the kind of quiet that only comes after something tender, something earned.

The room is quiet except for the hum of the city bleeding through the window and the soft rustle of fabric when either of you shifts. Hyunjin is propped up on one elbow, head resting in his hand, watching you with a look that falls somewhere between dazed and quietly triumphant.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, smiling into the pillow.

“I think I earned it.”

“You really did.”

The laughter that follows is quiet, worn thin at the edges. Like all the nerves between you finally fizzled out, leaving nothing behind but this: limbs tangled, hearts quiet, hands brushing in the dark.

Beneath the covers, his fingers find yours. Threading gently. Holding, not gripping. Like he’s done it a thousand times already in some dream neither of you talked about.

It’s late. Too late, probably. But neither of you brings up leaving. Or staying. Or what any of it means.

Eventually, Hyunjin shifts, reaching over the side of the bed where your clothes are still scattered, careless and content. He fishes around until something buzzes under your sweater.

You watch through heavy lids, cheek pressed to your arm. “Tell me you’re not checking the group chat.”

“I’m not,” he replies, tapping away anyway.

You squint at him. “Liar.”

He flashes the screen toward you, smug as ever. Just one message sent. One emoji: a thumbs up.

You blink. “That’s it?”

He shrugs. “They’ll get it.”

You huff, rolling your eyes as your smile pulls deeper into your cheek. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” he says, leaning closer, brushing your wrist with his thumb, “here you are.”

You don’t answer. Just let your head fall back against the pillow, laughter catching quietly in your throat before it fades into something softer.

You feel him settle back beside you. Closer this time. One arm around your waist, the other reaching again for your hand beneath the sheets like it’s instinct. Like it’s already habit.

And somewhere, across town, Jisung is already blowing up Hotline:

‎  ‎  quokka1409 • now — I TOLD YOU GUYS IT WOULD HAPPEN TONIGHT. Y’ALL OWE ME. I WANT RECEIPTS. I WANT APOLOGIES. I WANT A FRAMED CERTIFICATE OF PSYCHIC ACCURACY.

Mutuals are confused. But anyone who knows him knows exactly what he’s screaming about.

Back here, the world doesn't pause for anything. The streetlights outside keep blinking. A train groans against metal in the distance. Life keeps moving, indifferent.

But here, you fall asleep with his hand in yours, a quiet smile stitches into your cheek. No questions, no regrets.

Just that impossible, glowing calm of knowing you’re right where you’re meant to be.

゜・．・ hope you enjoyed! want to support?

part one • follow/reblog • leave a request • my other works

🏷️ ‎ @kkatsvy‎‎ ‎ ( ty for the support on starting this acc, love you sm )

[blueminnies-blog]

Chapter 6: " Where the Silence Almost Spoke "

That is one of the longest chapters I've ever written. Enjoy it yall and have a great time.

The world outside her apartment felt too loud, too cold, too filled with a kind of life that her feverish body couldn’t keep up with. She’d been curled in bed for most of the day, skin clammy, her throat raw, nose chafed from too many tissues. The space was dim except for the soft golden glow of a single lamp beside her, painting long shadows on the walls that somehow felt like company.

She hadn’t texted anyone. Not because she didn’t want to. Because everything—every motion, every breath—felt like too much.

But Jihoon knew.

Somehow, he always did.

He noticed the empty seat at her usual corner in his music lounge — where she'd sit curled up with her tea and that fraying novel. Day one, he figured she was busy. Day two, he frowned. Day three, he found himself checking his phone, half-expecting a “Hey, wanna grab tteokbokki?” text that never came.

By the end of the week, worry had settled in his chest like a weight he couldn’t shake.

It was a quiet moment, she didn’t remember clearly—maybe she sounded too breathless in a voice memo, or maybe she didn’t reply to Jihoon’s check-in texts fast enough. Either way, by the time Mingyu knew, he was already halfway out the door.

“Are you sure?” he’d asked Jihoon, standing at the entryway of the studio, keys jangling in one hand, phone in the other.

Jihoon’s voice didn’t hesitate. “She’s not gonna ask for help. She’s still too proud of that. But… she sounded bad this morning in the voice memo. I left some meds and groceries, but I couldn’t stay. I've lots of work at the studio ”

Another beat of silence. The kind that made Jihoon sigh deeply.

“Look… I know it’s complicated. But she’s alone. And she’s stubborn. She won’t ask for help even if she’s drowning. You know that better than anyone.”

Mingyu closed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to cross a line.”

“I left her spare key in your mailbox.”

“Jihoon....”

“I’m not asking you to win her back,” Jihoon said. “I’m asking you not to let her suffer alone.”

The words settled heavy in Mingyu’s chest.

'Do I trust me with it?'

Still, he went.

It took Mingyu three hours to get to her apartment.

Three hours of pacing his living room. Picking up soup. picked it again because the first one didn’t feel warm enough. Buying two more types of tea because he couldn’t remember which she liked best. Grabbing a pink fuzzy blanket on a whim. Staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror like he could rehearse how not to scare her.

The moment he stepped into the building, his breath caught. Memories lived in these hallways like ghosts with soft footsteps. He stood outside her door, spare key in hand, heartbeat in his ears.

What if she slammed the door in his face? What if she was fine and he’d crossed a line?

He gathered his courage before sliding the key into the lock.

The apartment was dim, quiet, and smelled like menthol and tissues.

She lay curled up on the couch, surrounded by tissues, her hair matted to her forehead with sweat. Her lips were cracked. Skin pale. She didn’t even stir.

His chest tightened. He gently set down the bags and moved slowly. Carefully. Like any loud movement, it might shatter something fragile.

He placed a bottle of water by her side. Wet a towel. Wiped her forehead gently.

When she stirred, eyes fluttering open, she didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch.

"Mingyu...?” Her voice was rough. Barely a whisper.

He knelt beside her, eyes soft. “Hey. Jihoon told me you weren’t feeling well.”

"You came...”

His smile was tentative. “Of course I did.”

She blinked at him, dazed. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’ll go if you want me to,” he said, already rising.

But her hand — weak, trembling — brushed his wrist.

"Stay...”

Silence. Then, she closed her eyes again, lips parting with a breathless sigh. She didn’t protest, didn’t ask him to leave either

He took that as permission but inside, his heart thundered. Her vulnerability shook something loose in him. He hadn’t seen her like this in so long—soft, undone, human in a way that made his throat ache.

The Care Begins. The next hour moved in soft, quiet steps.

He moved around her apartment like a gentle storm — controlled, careful, intentional. He reheated the Miso soup Jihoon had left in the fridge. Found her old hot water bag in the cabinet and filled it. Changed her pillowcase and bed sheets. Cleaned up the used tissues piling on the nightstand.

He sat beside her, quietly urging her to eat a little. Holding the spoon when her hands trembled too much. He tucked her hair behind her ear when it clung to her skin.

Every touch was feather-light. Every breath between them was loud.

He didn’t speak much. He didn’t have to. But inside his mind, a storm raged.

'Why didn’t I see her like this before? Why did I only remember how to love her once I’d lost her?'

When she coughed, he brought water and medication before she could ask. When she drifted back to sleep, he sat cross-legged nearby, a book open in his lap — the same one Jihoon had returned to her — reading aloud softly like he used to.

“And there, beneath the stars, they realized that silence could speak. And in that language, they were understood.”

His voice shook, just barely—but he kept reading.

Outside, night had fallen in layers. The windows reflected nothing but black, and the soft hiss of rain deepened into a steady downpour. The thunder came suddenly—crackling, violent—snapping her from sleep like a slap to the senses.

She blinked, breath caught in her throat.

He was still there. Still reading, still breathing, still beside her like some unshakable constant in a world that refused to stay still.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, softly—barely more than breath—she whispered, “Gyu…”

His eyes lifted to meet hers. There was something searching in the way he looked at her—like he was scanning her for cracks. She sounded better. Not whole, not healed, but not like she might break open if he touched her with a single word. A fragile kind of better.

Her fingers reached for her phone, screen lighting up her face with a cool glow. She squinted at it, frowned. “It’s a thunder storming,” she murmured, voice rasped with sleep and something heavier. “Great...”

“I’ll call a cab,” Mingyu offered, already pushing himself to his feet with that quiet steadiness of his.

She watched as he scrolled, thumb moving faster than his breath. There was a pause—one beat, two—and then a muted sigh.

“No cabs available,” he said without looking at her. “Maybe the subway?”

Another app. Another pause. Then: “Suspended.”

Thunder growled again, longer this time. The kind that made the windows tremble in their frames. She glanced toward them, and for a moment, she just sat there. Watching the rain slam into glass in wild streaks, the wind howling like some feral thing trying to claw its way inside.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.

Then, finally, her voice was barely audible. She said, “You can stay.”

Her eyes didn’t meet his. She stared at the floor instead, like the words had crawled out of her without permission. “If you want. I mean... the floor’s all yours.”

The silence that followed was so still. It almost made her regret it.

Mingyu didn’t answer right away. He stood there, tall and motionless, like he was weighing something heavier than a sleepover. His gaze flicked between her, the window, the storm.

Then he nodded. “Okay. The floor’s fine.”

She nodded, too, maybe too quickly. She rose, pulling out an extra pillow and a thick blanket from the basket by the wall. The woven one with frayed edges and soft pilling from too many nights of needing comfort.

The apartment wasn’t much. Just a studio, small and quiet and cluttered in a lived-in kind of way. A worn brown couch sat under the window, its cushions slightly sunken from nights spent curled up on it with books and unfinished thoughts. A low coffee table scattered with mugs of ginger tea, folded tissues, and an old candle she never lit anymore.

The only light came from the small electric fireplace near the corner. It buzzed faintly, casting a warm, flickering glow across the wooden floorboards. The orange light flickered against the walls like a heartbeat. Shadows danced along the shelves lined with knick-knacks—tiny framed photos, a chipped ceramic cat, and a dried lavender bundle hung like a charm.

It was quiet. Safe. Home, in that imperfect, unspoken way.

She handed him the blanket, their fingers brushing briefly—warm skin, cool hesitation. He didn’t say anything, just offered a small nod, then sat on the floor next to the couch.

Not too close. Not far either.

She climbed back onto the cushions, tucking her knees to her chest, and leaned into the worn fabric like it knew her shape. Her eyes drifted to the storm beyond the glass, but her ears—her heart—stayed with the soft sounds beside her. The shuffle of Mingyu settling in. The faint hum of the heater. The echo of her pulse.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

He lay awake on the floor, blanket drawn up to his chest. She curled above him, listening not just to the thunder outside but to the space between their breaths.

And in that tiny studio, wrapped in the storm and the hush of everything unsaid, she felt time slow to something sacred.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was full—of what they didn’t say, of what neither dared to ask for, and of every heartbeat they could both hear stretching into the dark.

Waiting.

Not for something to happen.

But for something to change.

The rain had softened into mist by dawn, gentle drops clinging to the windows like tiny pearls of memory. The storm had passed, but its echo lingered in the petrichor curling through the cracked window, the subtle dampness in the air. Outside, the world was washed clean. Trees glistened. Puddles shimmered like liquid mirrors. A small bird chirped on the fire escape — tentative, like testing if the silence was safe.

Inside the apartment, everything felt suspended in the hush of morning. The soft whirr of the refrigerator. The low buzz of the heating system. The faint smell of lemon balm from the abandoned tea mugs on the coffee table.

She slept curled tightly on the couch, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other lost beneath the covers. Her face, no longer flushed with fever, looked softer in the dawn light. Her lashes were long, casting shadows like wings on her cheeks. The hoodie she wore had slipped off one shoulder, exposing a sliver of skin kissed by the glow of sunrise.

Mingyu lay on the mat that was on the floor beside her, one arm draped over his eyes, the other loosely holding the edge of his blanket. His breathing was even, his features relaxed — but not quite peaceful. There were creases between his brows, as if even in rest, something in him couldn’t quite let go.

The space between them was only inches. The kind of closeness that could be accidental — or intentional. Her fingers twitched once in her sleep. His shifted in response, but neither woke, the approximate with too fragile, too peaceful to break.

The light grew slowly. Golden shafts filtered through the blinds, striping the wooden floor with quiet warmth. The rainclouds had left behind a sky painted in gradients — pale peach, bruised lavender, hints of gold.

On the windowsill, a forgotten cup of tea sat half-full, steam long gone but the scent still faintly present. The blanket on the floor had been kicked halfway off. Her pillow had fallen from the couch, now resting beside his arm.

The room smelled like fabric softener and warmth. Like maybe, just maybe, things were shifting.

After breakfast, the dishes sat in the sink — not messy, just waiting. A small trace of life lived.

Mingyu was still there, still present, folding the spare blanket with delicate care. He didn’t offer more. Didn’t hover. But the way he moved — soft, intentional, non-invasive — it was louder than anything he could’ve said.

She watched him from the edge of the couch, knees tucked to her chest. Her fever had broken. Her body was still heavy, but her heart — her heart felt... unsettled. In a good way. Or maybe a terrifying way.

He glanced at her only once. Just a check-in. Like he used to. Like he still remembered how to ask without words.

She said nothing, just nodded.

He smiled, folded the pillow too, and set them both neatly aside. No suggestion of staying longer. No silent plea. Just… presence.

She wanted to say something. Anything. But the words tangled with a storm of emotions she hadn’t named yet.

Instead, she cleared her throat, lightly. “You forgot your tea.”

He looked down at the mug he hadn’t touched. “Right.”

“Still warm,” she added, not sure why that mattered.

He picked it up and sat on the floor again — not on the makeshift bedding, just nearby. Not too close. Just… enough. The soft lamp above them pooled warm light over his features. His hair curled slightly at the ends, still damp from earlier.

She caught herself staring. He looked up. Their eyes locked. And held. This time, she didn’t look away.

“You make other things and my sickness … less heavy,” she said quietly. Her voice, barely audible under the hum of rain that started again about an hour ago still pattering on the windowpane.

His breath hitched slightly.

“Even when you were the heavy thing?” he said, half-joking — but only half.

She let the pause breathe between them.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Even then.”

His lips parted like he might say something or say the words he always wanted to say — but no words came.

So, instead, he took another sip. His hands were so big around her mug, and yet… gentle. Always gentle with her and her stuff.

She wondered when that shift had happened. When her instinct to brace around him had melted into curiosity again.

Maybe it was when he wiped the table without asking. Maybe when he read to her while she slept. Maybe it was when he respected her space even when he was in her apartment.

A sharp memory flickered — that suspended moment, them in their shared apartment back then making dinner together, his arms around her waist resting his head on her shoulder.

She shifted slightly, her knee brushing his shoulder. He looked up, startled. But didn’t move away. “I used to imagine…” she started, then stopped herself.

His eyes softened. “What?”

She looked down into her mug. Swallowed. “Back when everything was still broken… I used to imagine what it would’ve been like if you’d just shown up. Not with apologies. Just… soup.”

He let out a breath — part laugh, part heartbreak. “Took me too long to understand that love isn’t words. It’s… warmth.”

“Yeah.”

“Even if it’s in soup.”

She snorted, gently. “You’re terrible at metaphors.”

“I’m learning.” he giggled.

She tilted her head, smiling just enough for him to feel it. “I noticed.”

They sat like that for a while — tea halfway finished, warmth pooled between them like candlelight.

The storm had softened outside, but the thunder in her chest hadn’t. And maybe, she thought, that was okay now, but the thunder will come soon even if the skies are blue now.

Any opinions?

And to everyone who thinks that she forgave him just because she let him to take care of no, nope, that never happened. I wrote this story from my perspective, and if I were in her shoes and sick, then my ex came to take care of me. I'd appreciate not because I'm leaning in but because he came regarding any other agreement or something. Plus, mingyu gave her a space even when he was under the same roof as her. He didn’t pressure her to talk about them now. And she, she was waiting for herself to get better and ofc she won't shut down talking about why that happened.

Anyways, things will be clearer and slightly more complicated soon. Until then, enjoy:)

[tessa-liam]

W.I.P. Wednesday

Marabelle Series

Chapter 20 - 'Ascension'

"You know?!" Sophie was open-mouthed in utter disbelief as she paced around the fountain. She didn't know whether to be mad at him or... really appreciative of his insight. "Did my aunt really call you to tell you about it?!"

"Yes," Maxwell looked guilty as charged and quickly added. "But don't blame Mom. She didn't really have any other options, especially when my father started freaking out. Mom just wanted me to help you, to calm you down, and well... this is kinda what I do best."

She bit her lip, feeling overwhelmed with a strange sense of gratitude. He had come through for her when she most needed a friend, just as he had always done. How had she never seen it before? Uncle’s actions were insufferable. She suddenly felt like an idiot.

"God, you're too good to be true," she huffed in annoyance and jabbed him lightly on the shoulder.

He grinned back at her, looking uncharacteristically sheepish and shook his head, shrugging it off.

"Trust me," he sighed. "I know. Mom told me what you said to my father. I... have a lot of complicated feelings about what he has done," he trailed off with a wave of his hands. "You'll hear about them sometime."

Sophie looked up at him curiously. "About your dad? Are these secrets known at court? Your mom was all for you - supportive...'"

Smoke and Mirrors Series

Chapter 15 - 'Catch and Release'

The cell was silent.

Outside, distant footsteps come and go.

Riley is curled in the corner, her face pale, but her eyes fierce. Her wrists are bleeding where the restraints cut into her skin—yet the metal is now visibly worn.

Pain is temporary. Focus is everything.

She shifts position, pushing the sharp edge of the stone harder against the weakened metal clasp. A snap. She freezes.

Then—

CLINK.

One wrist is free.

Breathless, Riley focused...

'Come on... come on...'

She worked on the second cuff with trembling fingers. Another snap—both hands free. She exhaled shakily, trying not to cry in relief.

Riley stood, wobbling slightly, the blood rushing back into her limbs. She crossed to the tray near the door, and broke off a piece of metal from its bent corner—makeshift weapon.

The hallway beyond her cell is dim. She studied the lock. Standard. She grabbed the empty tin cup, leans close to the bars, and began to tap it in a rhythmic pattern.

'They have to be listening.'

Counting. Predictable patrols…

Sure enough, footsteps approached. A guard, bored, holding a flashlight. He peered in.

"You’re awake. Cute. Thought you’d sleep through your own ransom."

He unlocked the door and stepped inside, clearly overconfident.

Turning the Page Series

Chapter 18 - 'To Have and To Hold'

Footsteps approached, light but familiar.

“I thought I’d find you hiding out here,” Olivia said softly, her lilac bridesmaid dress catching the morning light.

Liam turned, smiling with quiet warmth. “I needed a moment. Before everything begins.”

Olivia joined him under the trellis, her gaze sweeping over the distant coastline. “Funny. You used to sneak off to avoid state dinners and speeches. Now you’re sneaking off before marrying the woman you love.”

“I’m not avoiding it,” Liam said quickly. “I just… didn’t expect to feel like this.”

Olivia looked up at him. “Like what?”

“Like I’m standing on the edge of something so big, so final, it’s hard to breathe. Not because I doubt her—God, never that—but because I know this isn’t just a ceremony. It’s the rest of our lives.”

Olivia reached out, gently straightening the collar of his shirt. “You’ve always carried more than your share, Liam.

Duty. History. The crown. But you chose her.

And that means you finally get to have something that’s just yours.”

He studied her face, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Do you remember that night in Lythikos? The blizzard? You brought me coffee with cinnamon, and we talked about what kind of king I wanted to be.”

Olivia’s smile grew wistful. “I remember thinking you’d never stop putting everyone else before yourself.”

Liam nodded. “You were right. And yet, here I am… about to put myself first. For once. With Riley.”

Olivia touched his arm. “You’re not choosing yourself instead of Cordonia. You’re choosing someone who strengthens you. Who sees you. That’s not selfish. That’s smart.”

He exhaled, his shoulders easing slightly. “You’ve always known what to say.”

She gave him a mock stern look. “And don’t you forget it.”

They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the cicadas hum lazily in the garden around them.

“Liv,” Liam said softly, “thank you. For being there in every version of my life—crown or no crown, chaos, or calm.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” she replied. “Just promise me you’ll dance with your bride like no one’s watching. Even if Bertrand is counting the steps.”

Liam chuckled, some of the tension finally lifting. “Deal.”

As she turned to head back toward the villa, Liam called after her, voice low but clear.

“Hey, Liv?”

She looked back over her shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re here today. It wouldn’t feel right without you.”

Olivia’s eyes softened. “It wouldn’t feel right to be anywhere else.”

She left him with a wink and the scent of jasmine in the breeze, and Liam stood a moment longer, heart steadier, breath calmer.

The next time he’d stand still would be at the altar.

And this time, he’d be ready.

To be continued…

✨️💖💖💖✨️💖💖💖✨️💖💖💖✨️💖💖💖✨️💖💖💖✨️

@choicesficwriterscreations

✨️Perma-tags: @beau1811 @bascmve01 @twinkleallnight @dutifullynuttywitch @lovingchoices14 @alj4890 @busywoman @bardic-tales @kingliam2019 @malblk21 @delmissesryanandcassi @selina012 @differenttyphoonwerewolf

✨️Liam x Riley: @ladylamrian @snoopdogcone @jared2612 @queenwalton @rafasgirl23415 @walkerdrakewalker @loreofyore @fadingreveries

✨️Liam x Sophie: @snoopdogcone @jared2612 @kyra75 @chiarakole @waffleseggsbacon @scourge-lover @classylady1234 @thethingsidoforausername @belencha77 @soniamayo

[onceinawhilemoon]

(Part 2) Sherlock Holmes Chapter One achievement icons enlarged and upscaled in case you were also curious to see the art in full detail! (Part 1)

[thescarletfang]

SPINNING OUT [part one]

Dr. Jack Abbot x ex!freader

Summary: You left Jack three months ago, convinced he'd given up on your marriage. When you're hit by a drunk driver, you're taken to PTMC, and what was supposed to be an ending gives way to a new beginning.

Word count: ~4.7k

Note: This was supposed to be a one-shot but it just works better in 3 parts! This is part one - the other two parts are outlined! First time really writing a multi-chapter fic, eeeep.

Part Two out now!

ALL OF MY WORK IS 18+, MDNI

Warnings: Angst, fluff, car accident, therapist reader, widower Jack, dead wife mentioned!, no smut in this part but eventual smut. Eventual happy ending. Slight age gap (reader is 38, Jack is 49). If I missed anything, let me know!

NOW

It starts again because of an accident. 

You’re driving home from work and you’re the kind of bone-deep tired that settles inside of you like lead. Your chest feels heavy and your shoulders ache. You grip the steering wheel, blinking bleary eyes to try and stay focused on the road. 

You dream of home. Stepping out of your heels. A glass of pinot noir in your favorite long-stemmed glass. You dream of putting the day behind you; of closing the tab on all the clients you saw today. All the words you offered them, and the space you held between your body and theirs; your mind is tired. It is fulfilled, yes - as it always is. You know being a therapist is your calling, and you’ve never been more grateful for work than you are at this particular time in your life. 

But you’re…exhausted. 

You can’t remember the last time you slept through the night. Likely in the before. Before your home was cold and lonely. Before everything felt so fucking hard. Before you slept alone in your bed and only brewed one cup of coffee and only made enough food for you.

You just want to rest. 

More than that? You’d like to hide. Your brain is all static and fuzz. It’s flipping its channels at a rapid pace and you’ve lost the remote. You think about the Xanax you have at home and think maybe tonight is the night you take one. 

You just crave peace. 

Everything changes in the span of a breath.

There is the screeching of metal-on-metal, your driver’s side door crunching in on itself. Your neck feels like it snaps. Your airbag deploys and then all you can feel is pain.

It hurts. Everything hurts. 

You feel like you can no longer breathe. You try breathing, you try opening your eyes but everything feels blurred, like you’ve taken your fingers and smeared the paint that makes up your vision. 

You cannot see. You cannot feel anything other than a burning pain that goes from the top of your head to the bottom of your toes. 

You think you might be dead. You think of him, for just a moment. 

You do not know how much time passes.

In the ambulance, through the fog and haze of it all, as you lie on the gurney with your head, neck and limbs secure, you beg them to take you to a different hospital, anywhere but the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center because if you go there you’ll see him and you just fucking can’t. 

They ignore your pleas and they tell you to hang on. They tell you a drunk driver slammed into you and t-boned your car. You can barely process anything they are telling you and you feel yourself drift in and out of consciousness. 

A nap. A nap would be so good right now.

They ask you to keep your eyes open but you screw them up tight. It’s too bright in the ambulance and you don’t recognize these voices. 

You can’t see him. Not like this. Not after everything. 

You’re fading, feeling yourself pulled under the current of a dark blankness and then the gurney is being taken out of the back of the ambulance. You keep thinking not like this, not like this, like it’s a broken record in your head and you’re desperate to get to the next track.

You understand that your gurney is moving quickly and you know, despite really being aware, that they’ve taken you to PTMC. The doors slide open and there’s so much noise but your ears are buzzing and ringing. 

Everything feels far away. 

You catch snippets of dialogue in the trauma bay. “Unidentified 38-year-old female. MVA. Somewhat responsive. Severe blood loss. Possible lung puncture, difficulty breathing.” 

Then Robby’s face is above you and his brown eyes grow wide, rounding at the ages as he sees it’s you. 

“Fuck,” he bites out, harshly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—” and then he barks an order at someone else and you manage to grab his sleeve. He turns back to you. 

“Hang on, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and raspy as he wheels you quickly into the trauma bay. “Just fucking hang on, okay?”

“Don’t tell him,” you rasp. “Robby, please, don’t—” you gasp, trying to catch your breath but it feels like you’re drowning. Blood splatters out of your lips. “Don’t tell Jack—”

A heartbroken look flickers across Robby’s face but then you gasp and you can’t finish your sentence because everything goes black. 

* * * 

Jack rolls his shoulders, shutting his locker and heading into the ED. Fuck, what he’d give for a quiet night and the ability to get through this shift without feeling like he’s white-knuckling life. It’s bad enough he had a fucking panic attack on the way in here. He’s been having those more and more often, despite being on his daily dose of an SSRI. His therapist tells him he needs to take a break, to finally cash in on all his accrued time off but he just grinds his jaw and says no. 

Work is good. When he works, he can focus on anything but the absolute trainwreck that is his life. 

When he works, he can stop thinking about you. 

It’s a lie, of course, but Jack’s always been good at lying to himself. 

He sees you in everything he does. Misses you with an ache that feels like a stone on his chest. On the really rough nights, where he feels like he’s barely treading water, he gets closer to the edge of the roof than he ever has. 

Jack shakes his head, wrapping his stethoscope around his neck, holding on to the ends of it like it’s a tether that can keep him sane.

One moment at a time, his therapist told him. One shift at a time. One second, every single day, at a time. 

Jack takes a deep, steadying breath. Losing himself in his work is enough, if only for tonight. 

Jack knows something is wrong the minute he steps into the ED.

Robby is rushing in through the trauma bay, rolling a gurney and barking orders at Shen and Ellis. He looks up and locks eyes with Jack. 

“Get him out of here,” Robby yells to Dana, who has just thrown on her jean jacket to head home. Dana’s eyes go wide and as the gurney rolls past her, she looks at whoever is on it and pales. She beelines for Jack. 

Jack’s heart thuds painfully against his sternum. He picks up his pace, gently brushing past Dana and making his way to Robby.

“It’s my shift, dunno why I’d need to get out of here,” he says calmly to Robby, trying to remain in control but he already knows who’s on that gurney. He already knows because the universe fucking hates him. 

It isn’t enough that you left him three months ago and the last three months have been a living hell every single day. It isn’t enough that it was his fault you left, that he’d pushed you to the end of your rope by pulling away, by shutting down, by letting those voices in the dark consume him. It isn’t enough that he continually put his work before you because work is the only thing to make him feel worthy of anything, and he regrets it, will regret letting you slip through his fingers every single day for the rest of his fucking life. 

It isn’t enough that you’re the love of his life and he’s such a stupid fucking old man, forever convinced he never deserved you in the first place. Self-sabotage has been his best friend a long time, lurking over his shoulder and shadowing every move he’s ever made.

It isn’t enough he’s been through this once before. He’s not even officially fucking fifty-years-old and he’s already lost a wife and he’s about to lose another. Jack Abbot doesn’t get second chances.

Jack Abbot reaps the fucking karma that he sows. 

“Dana, get him out of here!” Robby yells again, rolling you into T-1. 

“C’mon, honey,” Dana tries. “You don’t wanna see this.”

But it’s too late. Jack’s quick on his feet, even with the prosthetic, and he sees you lying there, unconscious, blood-matted hair and it’s dripping from your mouth and he can’t believe that this is happening, that this is real, that it is happening to him again.

Robby steps to him at the door of the room. “You can’t be in here.”

There’s a sharp ringing in Jacks’ ears, high-pitched and drowning everything out. His voice is gravely and broken. A desperate plea rather with no real bite. “Like fuck I can’t, man. Get out of the way—”

“Jack, I mean it, brother.” Robby blocks him again, his nostrils flaring. “Get out.”

“That’s my fucking wife!” The words silence the ED, cutting through the chaos sharply. Ellis and Shen look up, shock over their faces. They’ve never heard their attending lose his cool like this. Jack is the calm one. While Robby is the attending who is more inclined to raise his voice, Jack never falters. Residents and students and the nursing staff follow him blindly because they know he never loses his cool.

Well, he’s losing it now.

Dana puts a hand on her chest like it hurts. 

Robby’s cold facade slips for a second and for a moment he’s just Jack’s friend, his brother, and the pain is written in his face, a pain mirroring Jack’s own. 

Jack’s breathing heavily, his voice cracking on the last word because it’s true, you’re still his wife.

He can’t lose you. Not when everything is so wrong. 

* * * 

BEFORE

It’s Robby who sets the two of you up in the first place.

Robby went to high school with your older brother. While back then, you were the baby sister always trying to play with the big boys (literally, you were two and Robby and your brother were 17), the two of you reconnected when you became a licensed therapist and moved into the city. Despite being fifteen years your senior, Robby became a good friend. 

The two of you tried dating – briefly – but after a few dates, you realized you were much better off as friends. It always felt forced, too platonic, and you were honestly relieved when you both confessed that the romance wasn’t there. 

“I just can’t kiss someone who I knew when they were a toddler,” Robby told you bashfully, face beet red, after you’d both pulled away from a rather lackluster kiss. You hadn’t even been offended; you’d just laughed and called him an old pervert.

He’s been a best friend ever since.

You’re grabbing a coffee with Robby before his shift and your first client of the day when you finish complaining about your latest string of bad dates. 

“He venmo requested me when I got home.”

Robby chokes on his sip of coffee. “No.” 

You laugh, nodding and playing with the plastic lid of your cup. “Yes! You know what? It’s on me for agreeing to go out with a guy who still lives in his mom’s basement. I am grown enough to admit that that’s on me.” 

“Jesus,” Robby mutters. “What a dick.” 

“I think I’m done. I’m too old.” You know you’re being dramatic, but it’s so easy to bitch to Robby. “You’d think being a therapist I’d be able to spot emotionally intelligent men, but I can’t. Can’t even find someone who’s in therapy himself.” 

Robby snorts into his coffee and rubs his jaw. “Yeah, you’re a fuckin’ old maid.” He pauses, lifts an eyebrow. “I know a guy in therapy.”

You purse your lips, studying Robby as you sit at the little cafe table in the coffee shop. “Oh yeah? He an ER doctor too?”

Robby smirks. “Yeah, he is.”

You roll your eyes. “You know I can’t do that again.”

Robby laughs, holds a hand to his heart like you’ve wounded him. “Ouch. Was it that bad?” 

You grin, bumping his coffee cup with your own. “Yes, it was that bad. Even if we–yanno, had actually been into each other in a real way, your schedule is atrocious. ER doctors are walking zombies. I can’t date another one!”

Robby studies you in that quiet way of his that makes you feel like he’s seeing through whatever bullshit you’re spouting. 

“His name’s Jack Abbot. He’s an attending on the night shift. He’s in his 40s, was a medic in the army.” Robby pauses. “He’s a good man.”

You take a moment and absorb the information. “Is he even looking to date?”

Robby grins, draining the last of his coffee. “When he meets you, yeah, I think he will be.”

* * * 

Falling in love with Jack Abbot starts out slow and then happens all at once. 

You meet for the first time at a little bar around the corner from your apartment. You’re nervous. If you were being honest, you didn’t think Robby’s colleague would be interested in a blind date. But you’d gotten a text from an unknown number that read, “Hey, this is Jack Abbot, Robby’s better half. Would it be okay if I called you? Not a great texter.” 

He’d called a minute after you said that was fine and the deep gravel of his voice had warmed you down to your toes. Robby had shown you a picture of him, the two of them at some hospital fundraiser gala a year or two back, and yeah, he was fucking handsome. Thick, gray curls. Broad shoulders. Crooked smile. 

Apparently, he hadn’t been opposed to whatever picture Robby had shown him of you, because you found yourself talking on the phone with Dr. Jack Abbot for over two hours that first phone call. The conversation flowed easily, winding between work and family and it began to sketch the shape of you to each other. 

It’d been natural. Scarily so, if you were honest with yourself. 

You’re still nervous to meet him in person. That phone call was a few nights ago, and your hands tremble a little as you open the door to the bar. You run your hands down the fabric of your little dress – a casual, first date number that makes you feel sexy and like yourself all at once – as you walk into the bar. Your eyes scan for a moment. 

Your heart is thumping. 

This feels weighted in a way that other first dates haven’t. This person is in Robby’s orbit, which automatically makes you trust him. 

Your eyes meet across the room and it feels like a little lock sliding into place. You’re taken aback by the feeling.

He’s standing at the corner of the bar, casually leaning against it, hands in his pockets and Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous. The salt-and-pepper curls look even better than in the picture you saw, and your fingers itch to run through them. He’s in nice jeans, a black sweater, expensive as fuck looking Nikes, and he’s…well, he’s staring at you in a way that nearly makes you stumble mid-step. 

“Hi,” you breathe when you’re in front of him. Jack’s smile is a little crooked and it’s so charming you feel flustered.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice sounds just like it did on the phone: warm and raspy. “It’s really nice to meet you—uh, in person.” Oh my god, he’s so cute. He seems nervous and oddly, it sets you at ease.

You smile at him and fiddle with the strap of your purse. “It’s also nice to meet you in person.” Jesus, you sound like a robot. 

But Jack grins again and it makes him look boyish. 

“I’ll be honest,” Jack tells you, and he steps a little closer. His scent wafts over to you - like clean, fresh soap - and it’s very nice. “I uh…I haven’t been set up in awhile. I’m a little rusty.” 

You laugh. “Rusty’s okay with me.” You pause. “You don’t live in your mom’s basement, do you?”

Jack narrows his eyes. “Tell me you’re joking. The bar’s that low?”

You purse your lips. “In the ground.”

Jack lets out a disbelieving breath and shakes his head. He rubs the back of his neck. “I promise I don’t live in my ma’s basement.” 

You grin and he grins back crookedly and it’s so nice. He asks you what you’re drinking and after you both have your choice in hand - a pinot noir for you, a whisky on the rocks for him - you find a little table. The bar is one of your favorites, a charming little place with low lighting and a relaxed crowd. 

You’re once again surprised by how natural it all feels. You pick up right where you left off on the phone, and you’re grateful that Jack seems to enjoy talking. You’ve been on plenty of dates with men who can’t carry a conversation or seem physically incapable of asking you a single question about yourself, so this? 

This is just…lovely. 

The candlelight dances across Jack’s face, highlighting his cheekbones and the gray stubble. You…simply cannot stop looking at him. And he cannot seem to stop looking at you; you may not know him well yet, but an hour in his presence and you realize this man loves eye contact. He’s unafraid to hold it, and it keeps you grounded and in your body in a way that is calming to your anxiety. 

You find out Jack grew up just outside of Pittsburgh, that he’s a born and raised Steelers fan. You learn more about his time as a combat medic (you’d touched on it on the phone). You learn that he prefers the night shift, that it calms and quiets his mind. You learn that he’s been seeing his current therapist for two years after his previous one retired. You learn that he’s the oldest of four kids and has three younger sisters. A bunch of nieces and nephews that he — adorably — shows you on his phone. 

He learns that you’re prone to anxiety attacks. That you’ve wanted to be a therapist since high school. You tell him about your friendship with Robby and he laughs when you tell him about your ill-fated attempt at dating. He learns that you want to travel more, dream of going back to Sorrento, Italy and sipping limoncello while the briny sea breeze of the marina plays across your face. He learns about your family, and how much you love them. 

A lull in the conversation as you sip your wine and he studies you. You blush, looking into your glass.

“What?” you ask out of the side of your mouth. When you look back up at him, you notice he has a dimple in his cheeks when he grins. 

“I just didn’t think it’d be like this,” is what he says. Your heart thrums once, twice, a thudding in your chest.

“Like what?”

He doesn’t blink when he stares at you. “Easy.”

You smile at him and he lets out a breath like that smile is what he’s been waiting for. 

“I uh, I should tell you,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’ve been married before. My wife passed ten years ago.” His jaw clenches once, twice. “I never know how to uh, bring it up.” He clears his throat. 

Your heart clenches in your chest. “Thank you for telling me,” you say softly, genuinely. And you mean it. 

He looks at you then like he’s a little surprised. “You didn’t say, ‘sorry for your loss.’”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh. Do you want me to?”

His cheeks dimple when he gives you a small, gentle smile. “Fuck no. I’m just…everyone says ‘sorry for your loss.’” 

“It is an unthinkable thing to lose a partner, a thing that forever changes your entire chemistry as a human being,” you tell him. “And I hate that it happened to you. And I’m very thankful that you told me.” 

Jack taps his thumb against his whisky glass, and seems to study the melting ice within it. “She’s—she was the best person I ever met. She made me better. I think about her all the time.” He adds roughly, “I hope she’s proud’a me.” 

You resist the urge to take this man’s hand in your own. Your fingers itch for it, but you don’t want to assume he’s okay with that, especially during such a vulnerable moment. You sit in his words for a moment, letting them rest between you. 

“I’m so glad you had her. That you still have her, in a lot of ways, I’m sure.”

He nods and doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he lets out a breath and when he looks up at you, his eyes glisten a bit. 

“This what it’s like dating a therapist? You always say the right thing?”

You bark out a laugh because you can’t help it. “God, if I always said the right thing, I’d be a shitty therapist. I tend to believe you learn by failing and fucking up.” Your cheeks warm as he continues to look at you. “And this isn’t dating. This is our first date.”

He raises a teasing eyebrow. “Oh? First and last?”

You bite your lip and his eyes track the motion. He swallows. “That what you want? First and last?”

“Hell no,” he says immediately, voice so sure that it warms your entire body. The glisten in his eyes has given way to a brightness and you think, I like this.

I like you.

“Good,” you tell him, draining the last of your wine. “Me either.”

* * * 

You get tacos from the taco truck around the corner, and in between bites of carne asada and tinga de pollo, Jack tells you about work at PTMC.

“I like the teaching aspect of it,” he tells you after taking a sip of his water. You sit at a little folding table in the parking lot where the truck is set up. “I didn’t think I’d like that part, but as cheesy as it sounds, I think it’s part of what I’m meant to do.”

You’re smiling as you say, “I see why you and Robby are friends.” 

Jack barks out a short laugh. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

You swallow the last bite of your taco, lick the salsa from your fingertips. Jack’s eyes linger on the movement and you feel a buzz in your blood. 

“You both can’t help but lead. It’s in your DNA.” You pause. “It’s how I know you’re a good doctor and I just met you.”

“Hey now,” Jack says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “You keep talkin’ like that and my ego’s gonna get too big to fit through the trauma bay.”

You grin and he grins back and you feel silly and light and…happy. 

“I wanna see you again,” Jack tells you. It’s so straightforward that it makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. 

“You’re seeing me right now,” you say to deflect from the nerves you’re feeling. 

Jack shrugs. 

“Not enough,” he says and you think you might actually swoon. “I like schedules. You wanna see me again?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. I’m off in three days and I wanna make you dinner at my place. Would that be okay?”

You try to contain your excitement, to play it cool. You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“I thought you were rusty at the whole dating thing,” you tell him. His eyes flash with something you want to name as mischief. 

Jack rubs his scruffy jaw. He puts his elbows on the table and leans forward. “You make me wanna be good at it.”

You think your smile may be so bright that it outshines the streetlight above. 

“Dinner at your place in three days sounds perfect.” 

* * * 

There’s an energy between you that wasn’t there earlier in the night as Jack walks you home. You can feel it. It’s heavy and pulsing and it makes you feel untethered in a way that is intoxicating. 

Your hands brush as you walk down the quiet, dark street. Shoulders swaying into each other. You can feel the heat of Jack’s body, how close he’s walking. You clock that he’s walking on the outside of the sidewalk, that his eyes scan your surroundings, like he’s making sure he’s aware of everything going on.

The two of you don’t speak much as you walk, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s…anticipatory. It feels like you’re on the precipice of something and whatever happens in the next few minutes will determine something very important. 

You reach your duplex, a sweet little place with night-blooming jasmine bushes that have been there since you moved in several years ago. You stop at the gate and turn to him. He stops walking, hands in his pockets as his eyes hold yours. 

You both don’t say anything for a moment. You just look at each other and it’s comforting to know that you can exist with this man, just as you are. 

“This is me,” you say after a moment and it makes laughter bubble out of both of you. He grins boyishly, the apples of his cheeks pushing upward. A chorus of cute cute cute chants in your brain.

“Yeah, I figured,” he teases. “Unless you’re in the habit of just stopping in front of random people’s houses.”

“You don’t know me,” you tease back. 

Jack steps closer to you and you look up at him. He’s not really tall but he’s taller than you and his entire presence is so broad and commanding that you feel swept into it. 

“Hopin’ to change that, though.” His voice has a husk to it. “If you’ll let me.”

You take in a breath as he studies you like he’s trying to memorize your face. 

“Yeah, Abbot,” you say, your own voice soft. “I’ll let you.”

He huffs out a breath, hazel eyes clear. “Yeah?” 

His right hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek for a tender moment. You nod as he leans down. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, right before his lips meet yours. 

It’s the best first kiss you’ve ever had. 

Light at first, both of you learning one another’s mouths. Jack’s other hand comes to your face and he’s cradling your head like it’s something precious, like it’s something to be cherished. You step closer to him, your own hands fisting the front of his sweater and pulling him closer. 

When your tongue traces his bottom lip, Jack groans and it lights you up from your scalp to your toes. 

He opens his mouth immediately, his tongue licking into you and you’re on fire. 

You’re in your thirties and you’re making out with this man with a mop of silver curls and it’s so heady that you feel like you’re floating. You feel like you’re a teenager again, sneaking kisses before the porch light comes on and you’re found out. 

You don’t know how much time passes, just that when you both break apart you’re equally short of breath. You’re seconds from inviting him up to your place which is not your typical first date move but that’s simply because nobody’s been worth it before. He grins down at you, lips kiss-bitten, face flushed, and plays with a loose strand of hair framing your face. He rubs it between his fingers, then tucks it behind your ear. 

“Three days. My place. Dinner,” he says, voice husky and wrecked and you smile up at him, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes. 

“Can’t wait.”

Later that night, when you’re in bed about to drift off, you get a text from Robby, asking how the date had gone. You respond with a simple thumbs up, knowing it’ll piss him off. He returns your text with ????????? and you snort. You put him out of your misery with your response: It was wonderful. He is wonderful. Seeing him in a few days. Robby sends back a thumbs up in retaliation, which in return makes you annoyed and then you engage in a battle of emojis (middle finger, gun, skull, etc.) until your phone buzzes with an incoming text.

Jack Abbot: Had an amazing time tonight and can’t wait to see you again. Sweet dreams.

Your heart hammers in your chest and you think maybe—just maybe—this is the start of a real good thing.

There’s no way you can know that in four years you’ll be separated from Jack and fighting for your life in a cold, dark hospital room.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 18: May 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The apartment smelled like raspberries the moment they opened the door.

Belle blinked. “Do you… smell cake?”

Max grinned. “I wasn’t the only one who remembered.”

“Max,” came a voice from the kitchen. “If you let her cry in an elevator last night and didn’t bring her back to a full-blown party, I will break your nose.”

Emilie.

She stepped into the room holding a knife in one hand and a bouquet in the other, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder like some kind of aggressively nurturing chaos fairy.

“Oh my god,” Belle whispered, stunned.

There were balloons—floating near the windows, tethered in groups of gold and pink and white. A stack of wrapped gifts sat near the sofa, all tagged with labels like “Open when you want to feel dangerous” and “This one is soft because you deserve softness.” A cake—raspberry, of course—sat on the dining table, frosted with piped lettering that read “HAPPY BIRTHDAY BELLE.”

Max just closed the door behind them and kissed the top of Belle’s head as she stared, speechless.

Emilie crossed the room, shoved the flowers into Max’s hands, and pulled Belle into a full-body hug that somehow said I love you, I see you, and I will never let this happen again all at once.

“You’re early,” Belle whispered.

“I’m me,” Emilie said. “Of course I’m early. Of course I brought gifts. And of course I brought lunch, because I knew you two wouldn’t eat anything but adrenaline and each other today.”

Belle laughed—actually laughed—and Emilie pulled back just enough to study her face.

Then her eyes dropped.

“…What is that?” she asked, already grabbing Belle’s hand.

The ring glinted in the light. Emerald. Gold. Hers.

Emilie shrieked.

“You didn’t!”

Belle smiled. “He did.”

Max, very smug and still holding the flowers like a schoolboy in love, nodded. “She said yes.”

Emilie let out an actual squeal, tackled Belle in another hug, and then pointed the cake knife at Max.

“I’m planning the engagement party. You don’t get a vote.”

“Fair,” Max said, amused.

Belle just stood there, blinking back another round of tears. But they were different now.

Not the kind you cried because you were forgotten.

The kind you cried because someone—multiple someones—never stopped remembering.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Emilie squeezed her hand. “Always.”

***

The dishes were still in the sink. Balloons floated lazily near the ceiling. Emilie had slipped out with a wink and a leftover box of cake, promising to return with champagne and chaos “once you’ve finished your romantic post-engagement spiral.”

The apartment was quiet again.

Max and Belle were curled up on the couch, legs tangled, her head resting on his chest. One of the cats was asleep on the windowsill. The other had made a throne of the discarded wrapping paper pile.

Max's fingers moved gently through her hair. “So,” he said, voice soft. “What kind of wedding do you want?”

Belle blinked up at him. “You’re asking now?”

“I’m curious,” he said. “You’ve had a Pinterest board for this since 2013, don’t lie.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her fingers curled into the edge of his sweatshirt.

“I used to want the whole thing,” she said. “The cathedral. The dress with a five-meter train. The champagne tower and a dance floor with my name in lights. I used to picture a wall of flowers and an aisle that took two minutes to walk down.”

Max watched her quietly.

“I think,” Belle said slowly, “I wanted it to feel like something big enough that they’d have to see me. Maybe if the day was big enough, loud enough… my family would finally pay attention.”

He didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need him to.

“But now?” she whispered. “After this week? After all of it?”

She sat up a little, just enough to look at him. Her voice stayed soft.

“I just want you.”

Max’s eyes softened in that way that made her feel like a secret being cherished. “You’ve always had me.”

Belle smiled—small, but certain. “Then I don’t need anyone else in the room. Not unless we want them there. I don’t need to prove anything. I don’t need anyone to clap for a day they didn’t help me dream about.”

Max nodded, his hand moving up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “So… Vegas?”

That made her laugh, for real this time.

“Maybe not Vegas. I don’t think I am the Elvis Chapel kind of girl,” she teased him. 

“We can do whatever you want,” he said. “We can elope. We can do something quiet in the mountains. Or a beach. Hell, we can marry at the stable if you want. Just you, me, Fleur, and a priest who doesn’t ask too many questions.”

Belle’s heart tugged in the gentlest way. “I want it to feel like… peace. Like home. Not performance.”

Max leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Then we’ll make it peaceful. We’ll make it ours.”

She exhaled into his shoulder, her ring glinting softly in the low light.

“I spent so many years trying to imagine what it would feel like to be loved loudly,” she said. “But being loved quietly by you is so much better.”

Max didn’t say anything. He just kissed her again, softly—like a promise.

And in that moment, Belle knew: She didn’t need chandeliers or glittering crowds or performances wrapped in lace.

She just needed Max.

“I just want you,” she said, eyes closing. “I want to marry you in the quiet. Somewhere small. Somewhere soft. No cameras. No pressure. Just… us.”

Max’s hand found hers, threading their fingers together gently.

“Good,” he said. “Because that’s all I ever wanted too.”

Belle opened her eyes and looked up at him, searching.

“You’re really okay with that?” she asked. “No big party, no headlines, no Red Bull-themed fireworks?”

Max grinned. “Fireworks are overrated. And I already won the only prize I ever actually wanted.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “That was cheesy.”

“I’m in love. It’s allowed.”

She leaned up and kissed him, slow and sure, and when she pulled back, her voice was lighter. “Let’s elope.”

Max blinked. “Wait—really?”

She nodded. “Let’s find somewhere just for us. Paris. Nice. I don’t care. As long as it’s you.”

He looked at her for a long moment. His whole expression softened, all edges gone.

“Then let’s do it,” Max said.

Belle smiled. Really smiled.

And for the first time in years, the future felt like hers.

***

After dinner—if leftover cake and Max feeding her strawberries from the fridge counted as dinner—Belle curled back into the couch in her softest pajamas and his hoodie, legs tucked under her. Her hair was slightly damp from the bath she hadn’t even realized she needed, and her engagement ring still caught the low light like it had something to say.

Max was in the kitchen, drying two wine glasses that had only been used for juice. She could hear him humming under his breath, some melody half-remembered from a road trip months ago.

Belle opened her phone.

Not for Instagram.

Not for texts.

Just… curious.

She searched: “How to get married in Monaco.” Then refined it: “Civil wedding Monaco how.” Then, after clicking through a very official-sounding government page with questionable font choices: “Monaco City Hall marriage appointment calendar.”

And there it was.

A calendar. A short list of dates and times.

And one of them—the very next morning—was wide open. Unclaimed. Slotted between some dignitary from the Chamber of Commerce and a local couple named Elise and Jean-Luc.

Belle stared at it.

Blinking.

The kind of opening that didn’t just feel like coincidence.

It was like the universe had sighed and said, Here. Have something just for you.

“Max?” she called, still staring at the screen. Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears—half laughter, half disbelief.

He appeared around the corner in an instant, towel slung over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

She turned the phone toward him.

“Monaco City Hall. Tomorrow. 11 AM.”

Max leaned in, reading it, then looked at her with a slow, blooming grin. “Are you serious?”

“I didn’t expect it to be available,” she said. “But… it is. And I live here. You have residency. The paperwork is fast. They’ll process it same-day if we show up with our IDs and two witnesses.”

Max’s grin widened. “We have IDs.”

“And Lando owns a suit,” she added, deadpan.

Max laughed, that warm, throaty sound she loved. “You want to do it tomorrow?”

Belle nodded once, heartbeat flickering behind her ribs like a match just caught flame.

“I think I really do.”

Max dropped the dish towel on the counter and walked straight over, pressing a hand to her cheek, thumb brushing along her jaw.

“Then it’s tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s get married in the place where it all started.”

Belle smiled—dizzy, delighted, a little breathless. “This is insane.”

“This is us.”

And it was.

No big parties. No cathedral. No guest list with people who only remembered her when it was convenient.

Just a city she loved, a man who never forgot her, and an appointment slot.

Perfect. Just like them.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase 

Max: You already back in the UK?

GP: Nope. Flight got rescheduled. Still in Monaco. Why?

Max: Perfect.

GP: …Why is that perfect. Max.

Max: Because I need a witness.

GP: A what now.

Max: Witness. Like for legal purposes. You’re free tomorrow morning, right?

GP: Max.

Max: City Hall. 10:45. Wear something decent. I’m getting married.

GP: I’m sorry. You’re WHAT.

Max: Marrying Belle. Surprise.

GP: Surprise???

Max: We’re keeping it small. Quiet. Just us and a few people who won’t ask stupid questions or ruin it.

GP: Max.

Max: I’m sending you the location. And yes, I already have the paperwork.

GP: Of course you do.

Max: You in?

GP: Like I’d miss the moment you marry the best decision you’ve ever made.

Max: See you at 10:45.

GP: I’m bringing tissues. Don’t judge me.

Max: Never.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max and I are getting married tomorrow. City hall. Just something small. Just for us. Will you come?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME???? TOMORROW??? CITY HALL??? SMALL???

Isabelle: Yes. No fuss. Just us. That’s all I want.

Emilie: Oh my GOD. You are not getting married like you’re renewing a driver’s license. You need flowers. A cake. A moment, Belle.

Isabelle: I don’t need any of that. I just want him. That’s it.

Emilie: Yes, yes, eternal love, devotion, blah blah blah. BUT. You are still getting married. You will wear a dress. You will hold a bouquet. You will eat something that tastes like joy and sugar and victory.

Belle: I’m not even sure what I’m wearing yet 😅 We haven’t thought that far ahead.

Emilie: THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE ME. Do you still have the white dress we got a few weeks ago? The one that made you look like a romantic novel with legs?

Isabelle: ...Yes.

Emilie: Good. Wear that. It’s perfect. Simple. Elegant. You. I’ll take care of the rest.

Isabelle: Em—no pressure, really. Please. I don’t want a production.

Emilie: This won’t be a production. It’ll be a love letter. With flowers. And maybe a three-layer cake.

Isabelle: Emilie 😭 You really don’t have to—

Emilie: Belle. You’ve planned everyone else’s birthdays, surprises, parties, and holidays since you were like what, twelve?! Let someone do it for you this once. Let me.

Isabelle: ...Okay. But just a little. No spark machines. No confetti cannons.

Emilie: Deal. But I am bringing champagne. And I will cry.

Isabelle: I wouldn’t want it any other way. 💛

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: You have a camera, right?

Lando: …yes?? What kind of question is that?

Max: Like, a real one. Not your phone.

Lando: Yes, Max, I own a camera. Why??

Max: I need you to document something.

Lando: What kind of something?

Max: Just be at Monaco City Hall tomorrow. 10:30. Bring your camera. Wear a suit. Preferably not orange.

Lando: MAX.

Max: Yes?

Lando: ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW???

Max: Yes.

Lando: YOU’RE JUST DROPPING THAT ON ME AT MIDNIGHT???

Max: It’s 11:43.

Lando: Oh, my mistake. PLENTY OF TIME TO PROCESS THE FACT YOU’RE SECRETLY GETTING MARRIED.

Max: Not secretly. Just quietly.

Lando: Max.

Max: What.

Lando: I’M HONORED BUT ALSO PANICKING. Do you want, like, pictures or VIBES?? Do I need a tripod?? Am I the witness?? Do I bring champagne?? WHAT’S MY ROLE HERE.

Max: Your role is “friend with a camera who knows how to shut up.”

Lando: I can be that.

 Wait—can I still cry a little?

Max: Only if it’s behind the camera.

Lando: Deal. Lando:I don’t even know what shoes to wear for a Verstappen emergency elopement

Max: Don’t overthink it. You’re just the photographer.

Lando: You’re getting married in Monaco city hall and I’m the photographer?? What the hell kind of fairy tale speedrun is this?

Max: The efficient kind.

Lando: Who else is gonna come?

Max: Just us. People we trust. 

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Hey. Don’t freak out.

Victoria: That is exactly how you make someone freak out.

Max: Belle and I are getting married tomorrow. Monaco City Hall. It’s just us. Very small. Wanted you to know.

Victoria: MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN

Max: Uh-oh

Victoria: YOU ARE NOT GETTING MARRIED WITHOUT ME THERE I WILL WADDLE DOWN THE AISLE MYSELF SEND. YOUR. BLOODY. JET.

Max: Vic. You are literally weeks off of from giving birth.

Victoria: And I will do it IN THE AISLE of City Hall if I must. Tell Belle I will not miss her wedding. I love her more than most of our blood relatives.

Max: I mean. Same.

Victoria: SEND THE JET. I will sit like a queen with my feet up and my compression socks on.

Max: You sure Tom won’t tie you to the couch?

Victoria: He’s already packing snacks. You think he wants to deal with me if I don’t go?

Max: …That’s fair.

Victoria: Also I already picked out your wedding gift. I knew you two would elope. I felt it.

Max: You're terrifying.

Victoria: I'm hormonal. There's a difference. See you tomorrow.  PS: tell Belle I cried. But like, emotionally. Not hormonally. Even though it was a little bit both.

Max: You’re completely insane.

Victoria: You’re the one marrying a Leclerc.

Max: Touché.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie: So. I hear you’re eloping.

Max: …Hi, Mama.

Sophie: Don’t “hi mama” me. Are you really getting married tomorrow?

Max: Yes. City Hall. Small. Just us. And apparently my 34 weeks pregnant sister, because Victoria is very dramatic and refuses to be excluded.

Sophie: So am I. You are not getting married without me there. 

Max: You’re not mad?

Sophie: Why would I be mad? You’re marrying the woman you love. If you’d done it with cameras and fireworks, I might’ve been suspicious.

Max: It just felt like the right time. After everything. She needed to feel chosen. Not tolerated. Not remembered late.

Sophie: She is chosen. By you. By all of us who actually pay attention.

Max: She still thinks she’s too much. Or not enough. Depending on the day.

Sophie: Then tomorrow, you remind her that she’s both. Too much for the wrong people. And more than enough for the right one.

Max: I’ll remind her every day.

Sophie: I know you will. Now go to sleep. You’re getting married in a few hours and I expect you to look well-rested in photos.

Max: Love you, Mama.

Sophie: I love you too, Maxie. Now go love your girl.

***

Group Chat: WHAT IS HAPPENING

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri and Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: GUYS

Lando: EMERGENCY

Lando: MAX IS GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW

Oscar: I… sorry, what?

Daniel: Did you hit your head again? Like, genuinely. Because this feels concussion-coded.

Lando: I’m serious!!! City Hall. 10:30. Monaco. To Belle. IT’S HAPPENING

Oscar: Wait wait wait. Like married married??

Lando: YES LIKE “I DO” MARRIED

Daniel: Holy shit. I did not have “Max Verstappen casually elopes with Charles Leclerc’s sister” on my 2024 bingo card but here we are.

Oscar: Did they even tell anyone??

Lando: They told ME. And then Max was like “you have a camera, right? wear a suit” like this is just a casual errand.

Daniel: Does Charles know

Lando: ABSOLUTELY NOT HE WILL COMBUST WE’RE TALKING INDEPENDENT-NUCLEAR-REACTION LEVEL MELTDOWN

Oscar: I need you to calm down so I can freak out at a normal pace.

Lando: WHAT DO I EVEN WEAR WHAT IF I CRY I’M NOT READY FOR THIS I WAS EMOTIONALLY UNPREPARED

 I’M GOING TO SOB THROUGH THE LENS BELLE IS GOING TO LOOK SO PRETTY MAX IS GOING TO BE SO SOFT I’M GOING TO NEED A DESIGNATED HUG

Oscar: What are we supposed to wear?! Are we coordinating?? Do I bring flowers?? 

Lando: I DON’T KNOW I’M PANICKING I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF I’M A GUEST OR THE PHOTOGRAPHER OR BOTH

Daniel: You’re definitely crying, though. Let’s be honest.

Lando: 100%. I already feel it building

Oscar: Okay but seriously—do we all go? Did he actually invite us?

Lando: He said it’s small. “Just us. People we trust.”  Which… I think is us?

Oscar: Do we need to bring gifts?? What’s the etiquette on emergency weddings?

Daniel: I can’t believe we’re invited and Charles isn’t

Oscar: I can. Max said “people we trust.” That tells you everything.

Daniel: God, I love this sport.

Oscar: This isn’t the sport. This is a secret Verstappen wedding at City Hall with zero warning and maximum chaos.

Daniel: Exactly.

Lando: I need to sleep so I don’t have puffy eyes but I’m emotionally compromised

Oscar: Same. See you both in the morning?

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: You still in Monaco?

Jos: Yes. Leaving tomorrow evening. Why?

Max: City Hall. 10:45.

Jos: …What’s happening at City Hall?

Max: Getting married.

Jos: To Belle?

Max: Obviously to Belle.

Jos: You’re telling me this now?

Max: We decided tonight. There was an opening. She doesn’t want a big wedding. She just wants peace. Me. Us.

Jos: Good. She’s smart. And you’ve taken long enough.

Max: Will you come?

Jos: Wouldn’t miss it.

Max: It’s quiet. No press. No team. Just us. Some friends we trust. Family.

Jos: I said I’ll be there. Don’t make me get sentimental about it.

Max: Too late. You already like her more than you like me.

Jos: She’s never crashed a go-kart out of spite.

Max: That was one time.

Jos: Still counts.

Max: Thanks, Papa.

Jos: You’ve done good, Max. Really good. See you in the morning.

***

Emilie Abadie had been awake since three in the morning. .

Not because she was nervous. She wasn’t the one getting married. 

It was Belle’s wedding. And that meant it had to be perfect.

Because Belle would never ask for perfect. Belle would shrug and say “just something quiet, just us” with that soft look in her eyes like she didn’t dare hope for more. But Emilie had spent the last seven years learning the difference between what Belle asked for and what she deserved.

And today, she deserved everything.

And perfection, as it turned out, required bribing a florist with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, whispering at a baker’s front door like a criminal, and coordinating a last-minute restaurant buyout with a maître d’ who still remembered Belle and Max’s first date like it had happened yesterday.

It was still early. The sun hadn’t quite cleared the rooftops of Monaco. But Emilie was already in motion—dressed, phone in hand, espresso in the other, a determined woman on a mission.

The florist had said it couldn’t be done. Snowdrops weren’t in season. They’d laughed—laughed—when Emilie asked.

Laughed. Emilie still remembered when Belle had told her about her favourite flowers. Fragile, quiet, perfect. Blooming in the cold, when nothing else did. Just like Belle. 

Emilie Abadie didn’t take no for an answer.

She made five calls. 

Then ten. 

Then offered double the price. 

Then triple. 

Someone from a specialty hothouse near Nice came through. A courier had arrived an hour ago, carrying a chilled box like it held diplomatic secrets.

Now, the bouquet sat in a vase on Emilie’s kitchen counter. Fragile white snowdrops, soft eucalyptus, and one or two sprigs of pale forget-me-nots.

Because Emilie was dramatic, and because Belle deserved to be remembered in every way that mattered.

The cake was next.

Not a tiered monstrosity. Just something beautiful. Elegant. White chocolate and raspberry with buttercream. The baker—an angel Emilie had gone to culinary school with for exactly three weeks—had rolled her eyes at the timeline and then agreed with a huff. “Only because it’s for Belle.”

Of course it was.

Emilie knew how much Belle had given. To her family. To her brothers. To Ferrari. To everyone except herself.

She’d watched Belle quietly shrink herself for years—make room for Lorenzo, for Charles, for Arthur, for Charles’ career, for the Leclerc family myth. 

Belle never asked for much. Never expected anything back.

So today, Emilie would give her everything.

The final piece fell into place just after sunrise: lunch at the restaurant where Max had taken Belle on their first date. The cozy one tucked behind the port with the ivy-covered terrace and the little hand-painted plates. Emilie had called the manager at 6:15 a.m.

“I need the whole place,” she’d said. “15 people. Three bottles of Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque. No fuss. No press. Max and Belle Verstappen.”

The Manager had paused and looked at Emilie:. “Ah,” he’d said, eyes twinkling. “For the couple who ordered the wine, then forgot to drink it because they were too busy falling in love?”

By 6:00, the venue was booked. The menu was set. The staff had already started laying out fresh linen.

Emilie checked the list one more time—flowers, cake, lunch, Max’s boutonnière, Belle’s shoes.

Everything was ready.

Emilie slipped her phone into her bag, gave the bouquet one last fond glance, and smiled to herself.

Because today—finally—was about Belle. Not Charles. Not their mother. Not a team or a trophy or anyone else’s spotlight.

Today was hers.

And Emilie Abadie would make sure not a single petal was out of place.

***

The morning sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting golden light across the kitchen tile. It was quiet, peaceful, and smelled faintly of toast and coffee.

Max stood barefoot at the stove, his curls still messy from sleep, flipping something in a pan with practiced ease. Belle was perched on the counter in one of his old shirts, legs swinging gently, a mug of tea cradled in her hands.

“So,” Max said, without looking at her, “do I get to call you Mrs. Verstappen by noon?”

Belle smirked into her cup. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

He turned, brandishing the spatula. “It is. You’re marrying a man who owns three sim rigs and talks to his cats.”

“Bold of you to assume that’s not the exact reason I said yes.”

Max grinned and came closer, slipping between her knees as she set her mug down. His hands landed on her hips. “You nervous?”

“No.” She let her forehead rest against his. “Just… full.”

“Full?”

“Of everything. Gratitude. Peace. Butterflies.”

Max kissed her, gentle and grounding. “Good. Me too.”

The moment was quiet again. Warm and soft.

Until—  BANG.

The front door flew open.

“—DO NOT PANIC,” came Emilie’s voice from the hallway, “I have the cake, I have the emergency double-stick tape, I have the snowdrops—do not ask how—and I am here to take the bride.”

Belle groaned and leaned against Max’s shoulder. “She’s already started.”

Max was laughing when Emilie rounded the corner, her arms full of garment bags, shoe boxes, and a box of pastries balanced precariously on top.

She froze at the sight of them. “Okay, this is cute and domestic, but time is ticking and you—” she pointed at Belle with a dramatic flourish, “—need to be in a robe, drinking champagne, and pretending to be relaxed.”

Belle slid off the counter. “We haven’t even had breakfast.”

“I brought croissants. And mimosas. And eye masks. Let’s go.”

Max raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”

“Absolutely,” Emilie said, already dragging Belle toward the hallway. 

Belle shot Max a helpless smile over her shoulder as she was swept away into the bedroom. 

Max chuckled and turned back to the stove. “She’s been waiting for this since the day we met.”

“YOU PROMISED NEVER TO SPEAK OF THAT,” Emilie shouted back.

The apartment settled for a beat.

And then the doorbell rang.

Max opened it to find Victoria, already glowing despite being eight months pregnant, her husband Tom hauling what appeared to be a bouquet the size of a toddler, and both of their sons clinging to his legs like adorable koalas.

Sophie was right behind them, holding a wrapped box and beaming. “Where’s my daughter-in-law?”

Max stepped back. “Currently being kidnapped by a woman wielding florals and threat-level energy.”

“Ah,” Sophie said brightly, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “So the usual.”

Victoria waddled in and immediately headed for the kitchen. “Where’s the coffee? I need caffeine and at least one chair that won’t collapse under me.”

Tom followed with the flowers. “We brought noise. And crumbs. You’re welcome.”

The boys immediately made for the cats, causing a small riot in the living room.

Max leaned back against the counter, a smile tugging at his mouth as he watched his family pour in. “This is going to be a day.”

“Of course it is,” Sophie said, setting down her gift. “You’re marrying the best girl in Monaco.”

And just then, as if summoned, Emilie poked her head out of the hallway.

“Max,” she said solemnly. “You’re not allowed to see her for at least three hours. Also, she’s glowing. Prepare yourself.”

Then she vanished again.

Max laughed, shaking his head. “I already am.”

***

Max was mid-cleanup from the first round of croissant carnage when the intercom buzzed again.

He pressed the button. “Yeah?”

“Delivery,” came Oscar’s voice, dry and very much not a delivery person.

Max buzzed them in.

Thirty seconds later, Oscar and Lily walked in—Lily looking radiant in a pale floral dress, Oscar in a navy suit that made him look vaguely uncomfortable but also suspiciously good. There was box of macarons in Lily’s arms and Oscar carrying a bottle of champagne with all the solemnity of someone delivering a newborn child.

Lily kissed Max’s cheek. “Where’s Belle?”

“Bedroom,” Max said. “Emilie has barricaded the door. I’m not allowed to breathe near it.”

“Good,” Lily said. “You’ll see her when she’s ready. And not a second before!” she call over her shoulder as she made her way to where all the women had disappeared to. 

“Do we look like well-adjusted guests?” Oscar asked, holding out the champagner, just as the doorbell rang again

Tom opened it this time—and immediately stepped back to avoid being hit in the face by a wildly enthusiastic Daniel Ricciardo, who practically burst in with his arms open.

“IT’S WEDDING TIME, BABY!” Daniel yelled, already grinning like he’d won the lottery.

Max raised his coffee cup without looking up. “You’re three hours early.”

“I brought champagne. I’m never early. I’m… emotionally prepared.”

Before anyone could respond, the door buzzed again.

“Please let that be someone calm,” Max muttered, walking to the door just as Lando arrived—In a grey suit, camera strap across his chest, looking like a documentary filmmaker who’d taken a wrong turn into a very glamorous rom-com.

“Okay,” Lando said in lieu of a greeting, “I brought the camera, the backup camera, the battery pack, and three lenses I don’t know how to use, but they make me look professional. Also, Lily said if I forgot to wear a tie, she’d strangle me with it, so here.” He pointed to the pale blue tie knotted (badly) around his neck.

“You’re fine,” Max said. “Unless Emilie sees that knot.”

“I tied it,” Lando said defensively. “I didn’t say I tied it well.”

“You’ve had years to learn how to tie a tie,” Oscar muttered.

Daniel patted Lando’s shoulder. “It’s fine. You look like a best man in a Netflix wedding movie about a surfer who marries his childhood pen pal.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“I know what I said,” Daniel replied, stealing a macaron.

Max raised an eyebrow at Lando. “You know how to use that camera, right?”

“Please,” Lando said, lifting it and adjusting the lens. “I’m going to make you look like Vogue Monaco meets soft romance. This is going to go viral.”

Before Max could close the door, a final knock came—this one slower, more composed.

He opened it to GP, impeccable in a dark suit with a navy tie, and Jos, arms crossed, expression somewhere between “approving” and “this is ridiculous.”

“Everyone’s here?” GP asked as he stepped in.

“No explosions yet,” Max said. “Just Daniel.”

“Rude,” Daniel yelled from the kitchen, where he was now petting Jimmy the cat and eating a croissant at the same time. 

Jos gave Max a firm nod as he walked in. “You’re dressed?”

“Soon.”

Jos looked around the apartment, at the whirlwind of laughter and movement, at the family Max had built around himself. He gave the smallest huff—soft, for him. “Good turnout.”

“I think Daniel invited himself,” Max said dead pan. .

Jos glanced around again. “Still. Good people.”

Max nodded. “Yeah. The best.”

***

Belle had always imagined getting ready for her wedding surrounded by chaos.

She thought it would feel frantic, like the final fifteen minutes before a birthday dinner she wasn’t sure anyone would show up for—stressful, too loud, a little heartbreaking.

Instead, it felt like calm.

It felt like quiet laughter drifting in from the kitchen, the scent of espresso and lilacs filling the apartment. It felt like warm hands braiding the back of her hair, like silk slipping over her skin, like music humming low from the speaker on the windowsill.

It felt like peace.

She sat on the edge of the bed, barefoot, as Victoria carefully clipped the final snowdrop into her hair. Emilie was crouched by the full-length mirror, fussing with the hem of Belle’s dress, hung up. Lily and Sophie were there too, with Lilly the cat having decided that Lily the human was her new favourite person, while Sophie was rooting around Belle’s jewellery box for earrings to wear. 

It should’ve hurt.

That it wasn’t Pascale doing her hair. That it wasn’t her mother reminding her not to forget earrings or perfume or to stand up straight when she walked. That there was no Leclerc fussing around her, pretending to know best.

But somehow, it didn’t.

She’d braced herself for the ache—for the empty chair, the hollow weight of what should’ve been. But the ache never came.

Because these women? They were enough.

They were more than enough.

Then Victoria cocked her head, glancing toward the bedroom door. “By the way, are your brothers coming?”

Emilie stiffened subtly from her place near the hem. Lily glanced down at her nails.

Sophie, sipping her tea, looked up in quiet expectation.

Belle hesitated.

And then—because the lie felt too heavy in her throat, and because this was her wedding day, and she was done making excuses for people who couldn’t be bothered—she exhaled and said, simply, “They forgot my birthday.”

The room stilled.

Victoria blinked. “What?”

Belle looked down at her hands, resting in her lap. “It was race day. Monaco. Charles was on pole. Ferrari was chaos. I was in the garage all day and no one said anything. Not Charles. Not Arthur. Not Lorenzo. Not even Maman.”

Sophie sat very still. Her expression didn’t shift immediately—like she hadn’t quite processed what she’d just heard.

Victoria, on the other hand, reacted instantly.

“You’re kidding,” she said, straightening up. “They forgot? All of them?”

Belle nodded once. “I didn’t remind them.”

“But you were there,” Victoria said, voice rising. “You were literally standing in the garage wearing red! You’re his sister—how do you forget that?!”

Sophie’s mug landed gently on the vanity table. She didn’t speak, just watched Belle carefully, her eyes full of something Belle couldn’t name yet.

“They looked right through me,” Belle said, not bitter, just… quiet. “Like I wasn’t even there. Like I was just…invisible.”

Victoria stood up abruptly. “I swear to God, if I wasn’t about to pop out a baby I would’ve dragged Charles by the ear into a flower shop myself.”

“Vic,” Belle said, soft but firm.

“No,” Victoria said, eyes shining now. “You stood by them. All weekend. All year. You show up for every stupid photo call and PR stunt and family function, and they forgot your birthday?”

Emilie stayed crouched on the floor, head bowed over the dress, silent but trembling with restrained rage.

Lily’s hands were folded tightly in her lap.

Belle reached out and touched Victoria’s hand, grounding her. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“No,” Belle agreed quietly. “But you remembered.”

That made Victoria pause. Her face crumpled for a second before she leaned forward and pulled Belle into the gentlest hug she could manage with her belly between them. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered fiercely. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Belle blinked, eyes stinging but dry. “It doesn’t matter today.”

Sophie knelt beside her then, unexpectedly, and took her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. 

“I know,” Belle said. And she did. “You’re here. That’s more than enough.”

Victoria wiped under her eyes. “Do you want us to say something? To tell them?”

Belle shook her head. “No. I want to see how long it takes.”

The silence settled again.

And then Sophie squeezed her hand and said, with quiet certainty, “You’re not invisible anymore, sweetheart. Not here. Not ever again.”

And that was what Belle held onto, as she stood and turned toward the mirror—surrounded not by the family she’d been born into, but by the one she’d found along the way.

The right people had remembered.

And that was enough.

***

The bedroom door clicked gently shut behind Sophie as she stepped into the hallway, needing a breath. Just a moment of stillness. The wedding would begin in a little over two hours, and Belle—darling, radiant Belle—was in her bedroom with snowdrops in her hair and an ache buried so deep behind her smile Sophie could feel it like a bruise under her own ribs.

She leaned lightly against the wall, one hand wrapped around her teacup, the other resting protectively over her heart. She didn’t cry—not easily, not anymore. But her chest felt tight.

Footsteps approached, soft and quick. Emilie, Belle’s best friend, slipped out of the bedroom a moment later, arms crossed, mouth pressed into a thin line. She looked like she was holding back a war.

Their eyes met.

“You knew,” Sophie said quietly.

Emilie stilled. Her expression didn’t change. “Max told me,” she said quietly. “Belle didn’t want it to become a thing. She didn’t want pity.”

Sophie’s grip on her teacup tightened.

“She said she wanted to see how long it would take them,” Emilie added, her voice softening. “How many days would pass before someone noticed.”

Sophie looked away, blinking hard at the hallway wall. “Her own mother,” she murmured. “Her own brothers forgot her birthday.”

Emilie’s jaw clenched. “Her brothers. Her mother. Ferrari. Nothing. Not even a text. Carlos was the only one who remembered, and she begged him not to say anything because she didn’t want pity.”

Sophie’s stomach twisted. “And she stood in that garage, all day…”

“In red,” Emilie said, voice flat. “Supporting Charles. Watching them celebrate. She didn’t ask for much, Sophie. She never does.”

“She gave them everything,” Emilie said. Her voice cracked, just slightly. “And they forgot her birthday. They forgot her.”

Sophie nodded, eyes shining but clear. “Not anymore. Not after today.”

There was a long pause, filled with the sound of faint laughter from the living room and the low hum of a wedding morning in motion.

Then Emilie exhaled shakily. “Max said she broke down the second she saw him.”

Sophie closed her eyes for a beat.

It wasn’t just forgetfulness. It wasn’t a mistake. It was neglect wrapped in a red suit and family pride. It was inexcusable.

“She’ll never be alone again,” Sophie said, her voice steel beneath the softness. “Not while I’m breathing. Not while Max is.”

“I know,” Emilie said. “That’s the only reason I didn’t walk into Ferrari and slap someone.”

They stood in silence again, shoulder to shoulder.

Then Sophie reached over and gently squeezed Emilie’s hand.

“You did this for her,” she said. “The flowers. The cake. The restaurant. You gave her the kind of day they never thought to.”

Emilie’s eyes went glassy. “She deserves perfect. I couldn’t give her perfect, but—”

“You gave her love,” Sophie said firmly. “And that’s what matters.”

***

The apartment had quieted.

Everyone had settled into easy, pre-ceremony chaos—little moments scattered across the rooms like confetti before the storm. Daniel was dramatically explaining champagne etiquette to Oscar, who looked halfway between fascinated and alarmed. Lando was on the floor, coaxing Jimmy the cat into an impromptu wedding-themed photoshoot. Tom sat cross-legged on the couch, reading a picture book to Luka and Lio, the boys draped over him like sleepy lion cubs.

Max stood in the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, back to the counter, staring out the window toward the glittering stretch of Monaco coastline. The city buzzed quietly beyond the glass. But in here, for now, there was stillness.

The kind of stillness right before the most important lap of your life.

GP stepped up beside him without a word, mirroring his stance with practiced ease. They didn’t speak at first. They didn’t have to.

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” GP said eventually, voice low.

Max nodded. “I know.”

“You were always good,” GP added. “But you’re not just good now. You’re… grounded. Steady.”

Max exhaled, eyes still on the view. “She gave me somewhere to land.”

GP’s expression shifted just slightly—quiet pride, maybe. “You’ve always fought for every tenth, every inch. But with Belle? You stopped fighting yourself.”

Max glanced at him, something tired and raw in his eyes. “She sees everything. Even the parts I didn’t want anyone to see.”

“She never asked you to change.”

“She didn’t have to,” Max said. 

They stood in silence again, until a familiar voice cut in behind them.

“She’s not just your landing place,” Jos said, stepping into the kitchen, arms folded. “She’s your spine.”

Max turned, but didn’t speak.

Jos’s face was set. Not angry, but serious in that sharp, bone-deep way that came from decades of knowing how to read race tape and sons in equal measure.

“I wasn’t easy on you,” Jos said quietly. “I know that. I pushed too hard. Expected too much. Thought it was the only way you’d be great.”

Max swallowed, but didn’t interrupt.

“But Belle…” Jos looked toward the hallway, where a burst of laughter echoed from the bedroom. “She gave you something I couldn’t. Peace. Balance. You didn’t slow down. But you stopped burning out.”

GP gave a soft hum of agreement, but said nothing.

Jos stepped forward, brow furrowed now. “And she shows up for you. For everyone. All the time.”

Max nodded slowly. “She does.”

Jos shook his head, voice tight now. “So why the hell did her family forget her birthday?”

The silence hit like a dropped hammer.

Max looked up, sharp. “You know?”

“I overheard Emilie talking to Sophie in the hallway,” Jos said. His voice was low, but thunderous. “You’re telling me her entire family forgot? Her mother? Her brothers? Even Ferrari?”

Max’s jaw clenched.

GP was still, hands in his pockets, but his voice came out even. “They didn’t just forget. They looked straight through her in the garage. Carlos was the only one who noticed. She told him not to say anything.”

Jos looked furious in the quiet way only a father could—like he was cataloging every hurt, every slight, and filing them away for later retribution.

“She stood there,” he muttered. “All day. On her birthday. Wearing red. And they didn’t see her?”

“She didn’t cry until after,” Max said, his voice low. “But when she did… it broke her.”

Jos looked at him. “She tell them?”

“No,” Max said. “She’s done reminding people she exists.”

Jos’s shoulders shifted, like he was bracing himself against something. “Good. Let them feel that silence.”

Max stared down at his coffee cup for a moment, then set it aside.

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life making her feel seen,” he said, steady now. “The way they never did. The way she deserves.”

GP gave a quiet, approving nod. “Then you’re ready.”

Jos didn’t say anything for a long beat.

Then he stepped forward, placed a firm hand on Max’s shoulder, and said, with something rough in his voice, “She’s already ours. But make it official.”

Max blinked hard.

***

The kitchen had been peaceful—a relative term, given there were six men, two toddler, three cats, and a bottle of champagne open by 9 a.m.—but peaceful by Verstappen standards. 

Max was leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee while Jos surveyed the chaos in thinly veiled amusement, and Tom tried to get jam off his shirt collar thanks to a child-induced pastry incident.

Then the storm arrived.

Emilie swept into the kitchen like a tiny, immaculately-dressed hurricane, her eyes narrowing the instant she caught sight of Lando.

“Why,” Emilie said, appearing in the doorway like a Roman general entering enemy territory, “are half of you not wearing ties?”

“You,” she declared, pointing with a precision that would’ve made a military officer proud.

Lando looked up from where he’d been fiddling with his camera settings. “Me?”

“You call that a tie?” she said, already moving toward him like a missile in heels. “What is that knot? A shoelace? A cry for help? Is that your idea of a tied tie?”

Lando looked down at the pale blue knot that resembled something between a tangled seatbelt and an existential crisis. “Technically… yes?”

Emilie sighed so dramatically it could have won an award. “Come here.”

Lando, blushing furiously, stood like a man facing execution. “You’re kind of scary,” he muttered.

“I’m not scary,” she said, adjusting his collar. “I’m just French and disappointed.”

Max leaned against the counter, watching with mild amusement as Lando was wrangled into place. Emilie was adjusting the tie like she’d done it a thousand times, completely unfazed by the 5 feet, 6 inches of confused British man blinking at her.

Lando stood frozen, blinking down at the very pretty girl fixing his tie with the terrifying precision of someone who had made wedding planning a full-contact sport.

“Can I breathe yet?” Lando asked, voice faint.

“When I say you can,” Emilie replied sweetly, stepping back and tilting his chin. “Fashion is pain,” Emilie said sweetly, patting his cheek. “Suffer with dignity.”

“I’m… scared of her,” Lando muttered to Max once she turned away.

“You should be,” Max replied, utterly unbothered.

“Okay,” Emilie said, spinning on her heel, “who’s next—”

Her eyes landed on Tom.

Tom, who had attempted to get away with a cravat.

She narrowed her eyes. “What is this? Pride and Prejudice?”

“I was trying to be elegant,” Tom said defensively, one child clinging to each of his legs like barnacles.

“This is Monaco, not Pemberley,” Emilie replied, already reaching into her tote bag like Mary Poppins from hell. “Lose the cravat.” 

Five seconds later, Tom had a new blue tie around his neck. 

Jos, leaning near the counter with a coffee, smirked.

“I’d like to see her try that with me,” he muttered.

Emilie pivoted.

Jos raised a brow.

She raised both.

“Unless you’d like to be mistaken for security and asked to stay outside,” she said coolly, “you’ll put one on.”

There was a pause.

Then—without breaking eye contact—Jos slowly reached for the tie GP handed him with what looked suspiciously like amusement.

“I like her,” he said to no one in particular.

Emilie snapped her fingers at Daniel next. “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Daniel asked, grinning. “This tie is excellent. It has tiny cartoon race cars on it!”

“And you are a groomsman not a children’s birthday clown,” Emilie replied. “Change. Now.”

“But—”

“I will burn it,” she said calmly. “I have a lighter in my purse.”

Daniel blinked. “Wow. Okay. Yep. Good. I’ll change.”

Only Oscar and GP escaped unscathed—Oscar because Lily had pre-approved his ensemble, and GP because he was actually a functional adult. 

Emilie gave them a nod of silent approval. “Finally. Men who understand basic dress codes.”

Max was watching all of it from the corner, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest and a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Emilie spotted him.

“You’re next.”

“I already did mine,” Max said, lifting his chin.

Emilie narrowed her eyes, came closer, and tugged gently at the knot. It was fine. Almost perfect.

“It’s crooked.”

He didn’t even argue. Just tilted his chin and let her fix it. She did so with practiced fingers, then stepped back and gave him a once-over.

“You’ll do.”

Max smirked. “High praise.”

“You’re marrying my best friend. You’re lucky I didn’t make you wear the floral pocket square.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Max said, grinning.

Then the apartment stilled.

Because the bedroom door opened.

And Belle stepped out.

Max looked up—and every word left his brain.

She stood there in the soft light of morning, her white dress falling like water around her, the snowdrops tucked into her curls catching the sunlight. Her hands were folded gently in front of her, her eyes finding his across the room.

Max didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The chaos of the morning vanished.

It was just her.

Standing in the archway in a white dress that somehow managed to be simple and devastating at the same time. Her dark hair was curled and loosely pinned, a few snowdrops tucked gently above her ear. She had one hand loosely holding a bouquet, and the other nervously adjusting her sleeve. Her eyes swept the room, soft and uncertain—

Until they found his.

Max forgot how to breathe.

“Hi,” she said, voice quiet, like it was just for him.

Max swallowed. His throat was suddenly too tight.

He took a slow step forward, then another, like any sudden movement might shatter the moment. When he stopped in front of her, his hands hovered for a second before finally settling on her waist.

“You’re—” He couldn’t finish.

Belle tilted her head. “I’m what?”

Max blinked, and his eyes burned. He hadn’t expected that.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You’re so—”

She smiled, soft and real and a little shy.

“Max,” she said gently, reaching up to brush her fingers against his jaw. “Breathe.”

“I can’t,” he admitted, voice cracking. “You look like a dream I’d never let myself have.”

Belle’s smile faltered—just for a second—then turned into something deeper. Warmer. Her eyes shimmered.

Daniel, somewhere behind them, sniffled. “Okay, I take it back. This is romantic enough to ruin my day.”

“Shut up, Daniel,” Oscar muttered.

But Max didn’t hear any of it.

He only saw her.

The girl who’d stood in a Ferrari garage on her birthday and been forgotten. The woman who’d cried in his arms and still said yes. The one person who saw him fully and never once turned away.

And now she was standing in his kitchen—in their kitchen—in a white dress and snowdrops.

Looking at him like he was home.

“Ready?” she whispered.

Max nodded, his hands tightening gently on her waist.

“More than ever.”

And when he kissed her—just once, careful not to smudge her lipstick—the whole room exhaled with them.

They had a wedding to get to.

But for that moment, they were already everything.

***

Belle had walked into a hundred government buildings before. Cold hallways. Beige walls. Bored clerks behind scratched counters. Monaco’s city hall should have felt the same—official, impersonal, municipal.

But today?

It felt like walking into a cathedral.

This wasn’t the wedding she had imagined as a little girl.

There was no aisle of flowers. No choir. No dramatic gown or fanfare or chandeliers. Her mother wasn’t there. Neither were her brothers. There were no headlines.

And still—it was perfect.

This was hers.

This was theirs.

Small. Quiet. Real.

She squeezed Max’s hands. He squeezed back.

And as the officiant began to speak, Belle felt a slow warmth fill her from the inside out.

You’re not invisible anymore, she told herself. You never were. Not to him.

And in that moment, under the soft light and quiet vows and steady eyes of the only man she’d ever trusted with her whole heart—

Isabelle Leclerc became Belle Verstappen.

And for the first time in her life, she didn’t need the world to notice.

She had everything she needed right in front of her.

She hadn’t written anything down for the vows.

There was a version of Belle that would have. That would’ve planned every word, practiced every pause, agonized over saying it all just right.

But not today.

Because nothing about Max had ever needed performance.

The officiant nodded to her gently. “Belle?”

She took a breath. And then another. Max didn’t rush her. He just waited—hands in hers, thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles, grounding her.

“I don’t think I ever believed love could be soft,” she said quietly. “Not the kind that lasts. I thought it had to be earned. Proved. Negotiated into place.”

Her voice wavered. Max didn’t blink.

“I spent so much time being the one who remembered everyone. Who carried everything quietly. And I think I started to believe that was the best I could hope for. That if I was useful enough, maybe I’d be loved in return.”

She looked up, eyes shining.

“And then I met you,” Belle continued. “And you didn’t ask me to perform. You didn’t ask me to be anything but exactly who I already was. You saw me. Even when I didn’t want to be seen. Especially then.”

Her voice shook, just a little. Max’s thumb brushed across her knuckles.

“I’ve spent so much of my life holding other people’s pieces,” she said, “but you—Max—you were the first person who held mine. Quietly. Gently. Steadily. You never tried to fix me. You just stayed.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she let it. Didn’t wipe it away.

“So I promise to stay, too. To be soft where the world is hard. To be the quiet when everything gets too loud. To love you in the way you’ve always deserved but never asked for.”

And when she smiled, Max smiled back—like the sun had finally come up.

The officiant nodded to him.

“Max?”

He exhaled, but didn’t look away from her. He lifted her hands to his lips first, kissed them gently, and held them between them like they were the only steady thing in the world.

“I don’t remember the moment I fell in love with you,” he said softly. “It just happened, like a breath you take…quietly and then all at once.”

Belle’s breath caught. He held her gaze, steady and unwavering.

“I never thought I’d be lucky enough to love someone like you,” he said softly. “Someone who sees through everything. Who remembers the smallest things and never asks for credit. Who holds the weight of the world and still has room to make me feel like I’m home.”

His voice cracked then.

“You are not invisible. Not to me. You never were. I see you, Belle. Every version. Every scar. Every soft edge you try to tuck away. And I love you for all of it.”

Belle’s lips trembled.

Max’s thumb brushed along her hand again.

“I promise to hold you, every day. To never let you feel alone in a room full of people again. I promise to be your quiet, your home, your person. Forever.”

There wasn’t a sound in the room. Not a breath. Even the officiant cleared his throat like he needed a second.

Belle didn’t speak.

She just leaned forward—slow and sure—and pressed her forehead to Max’s.

And everything else fell away.

Her hands were still in his. Her forehead was resting against Max’s. Her heart was loud—but steady.

She could feel his breath on her cheek. The way his thumbs brushed hers. How he didn’t look away. How he never did.

The officiant’s voice was calm, warm. “Do you, Max Emilian Verstappen, take Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do,” Max said instantly. No hesitation. No breath between.

“And do you,  Isabelle Amélie Thérèse Éléonore Leclerc, take Max Emilian Verstappen to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” she whispered, and it was the easiest truth she’d ever spoken.

The officiant smiled.

“Then by the authority vested in me by the Principality of Monaco, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

A pause.

“You may kiss—”

But Max didn’t wait.

He kissed her the second the words left the officiant’s mouth.

It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was grounding. Fierce. Like he’d been holding his breath for a lifetime and could finally exhale.

Belle kissed him back just as hard, hands in his hair, heart pounding.

There were cheers. Scattered applause. Laughter.

And then—

“NOW!” Daniel’s voice rang out from the back like a commander on a battlefield.

Belle broke the kiss just in time to see it:

A blur of chaos. Daniel and Oscar  tossing flower petals like overenthusiastic flower girls, flinging them directly at them. 

Belle let out a laugh so sudden it startled even her. Max was still holding her hand, laughing softly too, eyes never leaving her.

“Seriously?” he murmured under his breath.

“This was always going to happen,” Belle replied, grinning.

Victoria was crying. Sophie was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief Jos was blinking suspiciously fast. 

And Emilie?Emilie was smiling so big Belle’s heart almost burst.

Belle looked back at Max—her husband. Her husband—and felt something settle in her chest.

This was hers.

Messy. Soft. Completely perfect.

And just beginning.

Max leaned down again, kissed her forehead. “Mrs. Verstappen,” he said, voice low and thrilled and a little overwhelmed.

She smiled up at him. “Mr. Verstappen.”

And Belle had never, ever felt so seen.

***

Belle hadn’t stepped into Overture in over a year.

It still looked the same—tucked into a quiet side street just off Port Hercule, all pale stone and soft wood, sunlight spilling through ivy-wrapped windows. There were no banners. No “Congratulations” signs. No garish floral arches.

Just one long table set under a canopy of olive branches in the back courtyard, decorated in quiet whites and soft greens. Candles flickered in the breeze. Snowdrops—snowdrops, in May—were tucked into every napkin ring.

Belle turned to Emilie, who only raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t ask how. I threatened a florist and bribed an importer.”

“You’re terrifying,” Belle whispered, blinking back tears.

“You’re worth it,” Emilie replied.

Laughter echoed as guests filtered into the courtyard. Daniel declared he would be in charge of pouring champagne. Lando was trying to fit three cameras into one discreet corner. Jos already had a drink in hand and was engaged in a deeply serious conversation with Oscar, who looked vaguely terrified. Lily and Sophie had settled into a side table with quiet smiles and quiet tears.

Their table filled slowly—Victoria easing into a seat with a dramatic sigh, her hand protectively on her bump, Tom at her side, two rambunctious boys wrecking havoc. Emilie adjusted every flower and napkin with military precision. Someone had even tied the cats’ names onto little placeholders even though they were obviously not present.

They toasted with champagne and laughed until they couldn’t breathe.

There was no DJ. No cake tower. No press outside.

Just a warm breeze. Clinking glasses. The people who had shown up.

Midway through lunch, Daniel stood abruptly, champagne flute in hand. “To Max and Belle,” he grinned. “May your love be as steady as GP’s voice in Max’s ear, and as dramatic as Oscar trying to parallel park.”

Oscar, mid-bite, choked.

Belle laughed so hard she had to put her fork down.

And then, as the laughter died down, GP stood. Slowly. Unassumingly. Everyone quieted with the kind of instinctive respect only earned by someone who rarely asked for the room.

GP cleared his throat, glancing briefly toward Belle, then Max.

“I’m not one for speeches,” he said, hands loosely folded, gaze sweeping the table. “But I’ve watched Max for a long time. Through wins and losses. Through fire and fury and everything in between. And I’ve never seen him more certain. More grounded. More… at peace, than when he looks at you, Belle.”

She looked down, blinking fast. Max took her hand under the table.

GP’s voice softened. “So thank you. For being that peace. For loving him the way he didn’t even know he needed. You make him better, Belle. But not because you ask him to change. You make him better by seeing him. Fully. And somehow, without ever stepping onto the track, you’ve become the most important part of our team.”

He lifted his glass. “To you both. For reminding us that there’s strength in stillness, and love in the quiet corners.”

Belle blinked fast, lips parted, chest aching in the best way.

Max reached over, tangled their fingers together under the table.

The meal ended with a cake—simple, white, laced with raspberry and white chocolate. Belle stared at it, already emotional, as Emilie leaned over and whispered smugly, “Don’t cry. You’re wearing mascara.”

“I hate you,” Belle whispered.

“You love me.”

Belle reached over and took her hand, eyes shining. “I do. I really, really do. Thank you for all of this. For… everything. You gave me the kind of day I didn’t know I was allowed to want.”

Emilie’s expression softened. “You deserved it. All of it.”

This wasn’t the wedding Belle had once imagined—the ballroom, the crowd, the spectacle.

It was better.

It was quiet, and full of laughter. It smelled like eucalyptus and honey. It tasted like home.

And most importantly: it felt like love.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

 (Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hulkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, and Kimi Räikkönen)

Lando: 👀

[sends: 5 stunning, sun-drenched wedding photos from Monaco city hall. Max in a dark suit, Belle in a soft white dress, snowdrops in her hair] ❤️💍

Lewis: wait. wait. WHAT?

George: Lando Norris what the hell is this

Carlos: wait wait wait is that— IS THAT BELLE??? AND MAX?!?

Alex: THOSE ARE WEDDING PHOTOS REAL WEDDING PHOTOS WITH FLOWERS AND RINGS AND A WHOLE EMILIE IN THE BACKGROUND??

Mark: Holy shit they did it.

George: WHO TOOK THESE?? THESE ARE VOGUE-LEVEL

Fernando: Monaco’s lighting really is superior.

David: YOU DID NOT JUST POST THAT

Nico H:  Lando WHAT

George: I— IS THAT MAX?! IS THAT BELLE?! IS THIS—THE WEDDING???

Daniel: ICONIC UNHINGED NO NOTES

Lewis: That’s the softest chaos I’ve ever seen. Also: beautiful. Congratulations to them both ❤️

Sebastian: That’s what love should look like. Simple. Fierce. True. Charles is going to set something on fire when he finds out.

Mark:  He’s going to kill Max. Actually. Kill him.

David Coulthard:  What are the odds we have to physically restrain Charles on sight

Nico R: Charles has not seen this yet, has he?

Carlos: …Charles is actually going to try and murder Max.

Nico R.: I give it 48 hours before Charles makes it about himself.

Nico H.: With his bare hands.

Sebastian: I’ll visit Max in prison. Bring snacks.

Lando: do you think if we just… don’t answer his calls… we can delay this

Kimi: Congrats. Cake looks good.

Lando: in conclusion: love won (also please someone hide me)

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/SpottedInMonaco: Saw Oscar Piastri and Lily Zneimer leaving Monaco city hall earlier today. Suit. Dress. Smiling. That wasn’t a casual brunch outfit, I’m just saying.

@/GridGossip: I BEG YOUR PARDON.

@/TifosiTears: oscar piastri getting married and not telling us would be the most oscar piastri move of all time

@/mclarenmoments: DO NOT JOKE ABOUT THIS. I AM FRAGILE.

@/NicolePiastri: OSCAR. OSCAR JACK PIASTRI.

If you got married today and didn’t tell your MOTHER, I swear to GOD—

@/NicolePiastri: Do you think I don’t have Twitter alerts? Do you think I wouldn’t FIND OUT???

@/NicolePiastri: TEXT. ME. RIGHT. NOW.

@/OscarPiastri: Hi Mum. Deep breaths. I did not get married.

@/NicolePiastri: Are you SURE?

@/OscarPiastri: Very sure. I was just a guest. Completely unmarried and ringless.

@/NicolePiastri: Then WHY were you at city hall in MONACO??

@/OscarPiastri: Because people get married and sometimes I get invited!

@/NicolePiastri: Noted. But if you actually do get married without telling me, I will start a podcast called "My Son Got Married Without Me."

@/OscarPiastri: Duly noted.

@/PitLaneParanoia: Okay but if it wasn’t Oscar’s wedding… then whose was it???

@/gridshenanigans: WAIT. Wait wait wait. What if it was Lando’s wedding???

@/McLarenSpy: He has been weirdly quiet since the win in Miami…

@/chaoticpaddock: IMAGINE if Lando Norris just casually got married and let everyone spiral about Oscar instead.

***

Stream Transcript: Lando Norris & Max Fewtrell

Lando: (leans back in his chair, stretching) “Okay, chat, before you all start spamming—yes, I saw the Twitter stuff. Yes, I was at Monaco City Hall. No, I didn’t get married. You can all calm down.”

Chat:YOU GOT MARRIED?! WHO WAS IT THENOSCAR OR LANDOOOOOWHAT DO YOU MEAN "NO" STOP LYING TO US NORRIS

Max Fewtrell: (joining the stream, headphones askew) “Wait, wait, wait. Back up. What did I just walk into?”

Lando: (grinning way too hard) “Twitter thinks I got married.”

Max F: “...Did you???”

Lando: (sputtering) “What?! No! No, mate—God—why would I—? No!”

Max Fewtrell: (squints at him through the screen) “You’re acting weird. That’s exactly what someone who secretly got married would say.”

Lando: (waving his hands) “I was just at the city hall, okay? I was a guest. I brought my camera. That’s it.”

Chat:"JUST A GUEST" SUUUREHE’S FREAKING OUT OMGLANDO WHO WAS ITWHY ARE YOU SO SHADY

Max Fewtrell: “Wait… was it Oscar?”

Lando: (visibly sweating) “I—NO—it wasn’t Oscar. He was also a guest! He brought… macarons. Like a very elegant little wedding guest. And he wore a suit!”

Max Fewtrell: (laughs) “So if it wasn’t you or Oscar… who got married?”

Lando: (looks directly at camera, then away, then back again) “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Max Fewtrell: “Oh my God. It was someone! You little cryptid! You’re hiding something!”

Lando (visibly flustered): I WAS A GUEST. I HAD A TIE. THAT’S IT.

Max F: You’ve never worn a tie willingly in your life.

Lando: (panicking, adjusting his headset) “I’m just saying… maybe some people like their privacy, alright? Not everyone wants a big flashy wedding. Some people like… small things. Quiet things. With like… flowers and—”

Max Fewtrell: “Mate, you’re digging a hole. You might as well tell us.”

Lando: (points at camera) “Nope. I’m loyal. I’ve been sworn to secrecy. That’s it. That’s all I’m saying.”

Max Fewtrell: “Sworn to secrecy means it was someone! Confirmed! Chat, we’re getting somewhere.”

Lando: (leans forward, whispers into mic dramatically) “Chat, if I mysteriously disappear after this stream… I was never here.”

Chat: RIP LANDOHE’S GOING TO BE TAKEN OUT BY THE WEDDING MAFIATHIS IS BETTER THAN DRIVE TO SURVIVEFREE HIM

Max Fewtrell: “So to summarize: Oscar did not get married. Lando did not get married. But someone did. And Lando is freaking out.”

Lando: (facepalming) “Why did I open my mouth.”

Max Fewtrell: “Because you love chaos. That’s why.”

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Reverse Bloom (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 3

A/N: oki this one got looonngggg. But it’s the first time where we get more flashbacks and one of the brothers relationship dynamic with her. What do y’all think?:) - poppy

Wayne Manor had always been quiet, but lately it was a different kind of silence.

Not the calm kind—the heavy kind.

The kind that pressed into the ribs.

That made even the floorboards feel like they were holding their breath.

No one said anything outright, but the Batfamily could all feel it. In the halls. At the breakfast table. Between patrol rotations.

Something had shifted.

Dick was the first to notice it.

She didn’t sit next to him anymore.

Didn’t linger in the kitchen.

Didn’t poke her head in while he was doing push-ups just to say hi.

She still smiled when she saw him—but it never reached her eyes.

Tim noticed the pattern change.

She didn’t leave flowers on his desk anymore. Didn’t ask about his tech.

Didn’t thank him when he opened the door for her. And he couldn’t explain why that made his hands clench every time he thought about it.

Damian didn’t say anything out loud.

But he watched. Watched her in the mornings as she walked past him in the hall without greeting him like she used to. Watched her sit alone in the library and never asked to watch him fight.

He told himself it didn’t bother him.

It did.

Cass, when she visited, tilted her head every time she saw YN.

Her body said what the others wouldn’t: She’s walking differently. Holding herself like she’s shrinking. Or hiding. But no one really knew why.

Unbeknownst to them, it wasn’t anything they had done recently.

It was everything they hadn’t done.

Because Y/N had stopped trying.

Stopped trying to fit into a space they’d never made for her. Stopped smiling for the sake of keeping peace.

Stopped running after them like the sweet little sister they hadn’t earned.

They had all been used to her giving.

And now that she had stopped?

The silence felt louder than ever.

⸻

Rain tapped at the window.

The digital clock on her nightstand blinked at 12:31 AM. The light from her laptop cast soft shadows across her blanket. The screen was full of browser tabs—open rentals, part-time jobs, temp agencies, and fake ID generators she could barely understand.

She was fourteen.

There weren’t many options.

She’d searched every “rooms for rent” listing within city limits. Most were in Crime Alley or the Narrows. One was near Gotham Heights, overpriced and probably fake.

She chewed her nail, eyes tired, mind aching.

I don’t need much. Just a place to exist. Somewhere no one’s watching me like I’m about to shatter. Somewhere I can breathe. Somewhere I can survive.

She hated thinking this way.

But she hated feeling like a unwanted guest in her own house more.

A knock.

Not on the door. On the window.

Her breath hitched.

She turned slowly, heart already knowing.

Jason.

Only he ever used her window.

She closed the laptop quickly and slid under the covers, flattening her breathing like she used to when she pretended to sleep after nightmares.

But the knock came again.

Not urgent. Not loud.

Just… persistent.

She knew that knock. He always knocked like that—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be let in or forced in.

Her heart squeezed tight.

Jason had been the brother she got along with best.

Not because he was kind. Not because he was warm. But because he was real.

He never lied to her.

Never sugarcoated anything.

He spoke in anger and silences, and somehow that was easier to understand than the fake smiles from the others.

He was never really around.

Not after he came back.

Not after everything broke.

She remembered the mess.

The shouting.

The day Bruce stopped looking anyone in the eye. The way the whole house smelled like grief and sweat and smoke.

She had been just a kid— barely being able to talk when he died.

She thought Bruce was depressed.

She thought everyone was.

Until Tim showed up.

And then she realized…

Bruce just didn’t want her.

⸻

When Jason came back, it was like watching a bomb walk on legs.

Angry at Bruce. At Gotham. At the world.

And her.

He didn’t say it, not at first.

But she felt it every time he looked at her—like her very existence reminded him of all the things he hated.

Especially her blood.

Especially her mother.

He had shouted once—just once—and it had cracked something in her forever.

She never smiled at him after that.

After that, their relationship had slowly stitched itself into something fragile and strange.She never asked questions when he used her window. He never asked why her eyes were always tired.

It worked.

And now?

Now he was back like always. Like nothing happened. But something did happen, happen to her.

⸻

A third knock.

She sighed softly and sat up.

Her feet padded across the room quietly. She unlocked the window.

Jason was crouched on the ledge, still in his Red Hood gear, helmet clipped to his belt, hair wet with rain.

His eyes met hers.

“You’re not asleep.”

She rolled her eyes and moved aside without answering.

He climbed in, boots dripping, and stood in the center of her room like he’d never left.

She crawled back into bed, not looking at him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.

“You used to let me in after only a minute.”

“You used to be gone for weeks.”

He paused.

The tension stretched between them like a thread.

The rain slid gently down the window now, streaking light across the walls as Jason shrugged off his jacket and dropped it onto her desk chair without asking.

Same as always.

YN sat cross-legged on the bed, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. Her laptop was tucked, closed and quiet, under her pillow. The web of open tabs still buzzed in her head—cheap apartments, fake ID services, under-the-table jobs—but now she had to pretend none of it existed.

Jason stood for a minute, hands on his hips, looking around the room.

“You changed your sheets,” he said at last.

She blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded toward the bed. “I remember the old ones. Ivy-patterned. These are white.”

“People change,” she said lightly, too lightly.

Jason arched a brow but didn’t press it. Instead, he walked over and dropped onto the floor beside her bed with a grunt. His back hit the side of the mattress, arms sprawled out. He looked up at the ceiling like it had something to say.

“It’s weird being here again,” he said.

For her it has been years since he visited her. For him it has been a month or two.

Y/N hummed.

“I mean, the last time I came back from patrol and crashed at the manor, I think Tim was still using dial-up and Bruce didn’t hate me this week.”.

A tiny smile tugged at her mouth before she could stop it.

Jason heard it in the silence.

“Hey—look at that. You do still have facial muscles.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she muttered, but not unkindly.

“Don’t tempt me. It’s a skill.”

They sat like that for a moment—him sprawled out, her curled in, both listening to the rain.

It was an unusual silence.

“You used to ask me more questions,” Jason said without looking at her.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

He rolled his head back against the mattress to look at her upside-down. “About patrol. Or the city. Or my bike. You used to sit here like a baby detective and quiz me about what it’s like being the black sheep.”

Her throat tightened.

“You used to talk more,” she deflected. Her tone was calm and almost collected and void of any emotion.

Jason smirked. “I still talk. You’re just not asking anymore.”

She didn’t reply.

He sat up slightly, one arm hooked over his raised knee. “So what gives, Little Bloom?”

She flinched at the name.

Jason didn’t miss it.

He frowned. What was up with her?

“I’m just busy,” she said, too fast. “School. Life. You know.”

“You’re fourteen.”

“Exactly.”

He studied her. There was something in her voice—an edge, dull and tired. Something older than fourteen. Something she shouldn’t have.

“You’re acting different.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“You’re quieter. Colder.”

“I’m growing up.”

Jason’s gaze lingered on her, hard to read.

“Guess we all missed it,” he muttered. “You growing up.”

She looked at him then.

Something fragile flickered behind her eyes.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t remember.

Didn't remember how she died because of them.

None of them did.

“Maybe you weren’t looking,” she said softly.

Jason blinked, caught off guard by the foreign sharpness in her voice—too subtle to be cruel, too quiet to be innocent.

The silence between them stretched, thick and full of all the things that hadn’t been said in years. YN shifted under her blanket and leaned her cheek against her knee, staring past him.

Jason didn’t know what else to say. And it hit him, sharply, that maybe that was the problem.

He had never really known what to say to her.

She used to make it easy. Bright-eyed, curious, always asking questions. “What was it like out there?” “Is it scary?” “Do you have a favorite safehouse?” “What’s your favorite kind of bullet?”

Now? She didn’t ask.

She just avoided looking at him, like she didn't want to be near him.

He sighed and stood up, stretching his back. “Alright. I’ll get out of your hair.”

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t say goodnight.

Didn’t ask if he’d come back with pleading eyes.

Jason lingered for a moment longer, then walked toward the window, grabbing his jacket from the chair.

“You know,” he said without turning, “for the record, I always liked those blueberry muffins. You should tell Alfred to make them again sometime.”

She didn’t say anything.

He left before he saw the pained look on her face.

⸻

Downstairs, the kitchen was dark except for the faint under-cabinet lights Alfred always left on. Jason padded across the tile, opened the fridge, and leaned in without thinking.

He expected to see a plate of something sweet on the second shelf.

A tray. A box. A little note with nothing written but a tiny, flower-shaped doodle in the corner.

But there was nothing.

Just leftovers. Steel containers. An empty ceramic plate where something had clearly been taken out.

Jason frowned.

“Huh.”

He opened a few cabinets. Checked the breadbox. Even glanced into the oven.

Nothing.

Weird.

He’d never really thought about it before—he just assumed Alfred made the muffins. The cookies. The lemon bars.

Now it was all gone. And he felt a strange… emptiness.

Like something had been quietly taken away. But he dismissed it. Maybe the old butler had been busy with one of Damian’s tantrums again?

He grabbed a beer, leaned back against the counter, and cracked the tab open.

Took a long drink.

Frowned deeper.

Something’s off.

He didn’t know what yet.

But for the first time since he’d come back to the manor, he felt it wasn’t just the house that had changed.

It was her.

And maybe… it had been for a long time.

He just hadn’t been looking.

Jason didn’t dream much. Not really.

But some nights, the garden bloomed inside his head like it had been waiting for him.

It was always the same—ivy along the railings, fresh grass underfoot, the faint scent of rain and cookies and Alfred’s cologne. And her.

Tiny. Toddlersized. Sitting on a patch of sunlit moss with a flower crown slipping over one ear.

He couldn’t even remember her name the first time he met her.

Bruce had just brought her home. She was two—maybe younger—and barely able to form words, let alone keep up with everything that was happening around her.

He hadn’t been angry about her, though. Not then. Not yet.

He remembered standing in the hallway, boots still muddy from patrol, when he first saw her toddling out from behind Alfred’s legs, all wide green eyes and a stuffed elephant in one arm.

She saw him—and blinked. Then smiled.

Like he was the sun.

“Hi!” she chirped, stumbling forward on chubby legs. “Juh-son?”

He blinked at her. “…Yeah?”

“Hi, Juh-son!”

Alfred had chuckled behind her. The butler clearly adoring her. “She’s been practicing your name, Master Todd. Quite determined.”

“Juh-son!” she squealed again, arms up like she wanted to be picked up.

He stared at her. Then laughed—genuinely laughed—and crouched down. “Well, hey there, trouble. You always this loud?”

She hugged his neck like she’d known him forever.

And in that second, he remembered feeling something he hadn’t felt in months.

Warmth.

Purpose.

Something good.

Something worth protecting.

⸻

But the warmth didn’t last.

Not for him.

(Post-Jason’s Death)

She remembered it all wrong.

It was supposed to be the kind of day where Alfred made lemon scones and Bruce let the sun touch his office windows.

But instead, the manor went silent.

The kind of silence that felt wrong—like something had been cut out of the world.

She was small. Too small to understand what “he’s gone” meant. Too small to grasp death.

But she knew something was missing.

Jason’s jacket was still in the hallway.

His boots, still at the door.

The gun holster he never used—left behind.

She remembered knocking on Bruce’s study door.

Tiny fists. A flower in her hand.

“Daddy?”

No answer.

“Daddy…?”

She waited. Knocked again.

The door didn’t open.

She sat there for two hours before Alfred found her curled up on the floor.

Bruce stopped speaking much after that. Not that he did it much before that.

Stopped looking at her.

Stopped noticing.

She’d go days without hearing his voice.

And when she finally did, it was always for someone else—Tim. Dick. Patrol.

Not her.

When Tim showed up, she remembered being confused.

He was nice. Smart. Kind in the polite way strangers are kind to children.

But that’s when she realized…

Bruce wasn’t just sad.

He was replacing Jason.

And keeping her far away from it.

⸻

When Jason came back from the dead, he wasn’t the same. Everyone knew it.

His memories were jagged. His rage, unfiltered.

He didn’t feel warm anymore. He felt like gasoline.

And every time he looked at her—bright-eyed, hopeful, still sweet—he wanted to scream.

Because she had what he lost.

She had the love he never got back.

The affection Bruce never gave him after the resurrection.

The softness he had buried under gunfire and ash.

She was everything untouched by the world.

And he hated her for it.

It happened one night after a fight with Bruce. The kind that left Jason shaking, fists bloodied from a punch he’d aimed at a wall instead of his father’s face.

He stormed down the stairs.

Every breath was acid.

And there she was.

Eleven. Barefoot. Hair in a braid with a ribbon tied at the end. Holding something she’d baked—banana bread, maybe—and walking up toward him. With a goddamn smile.

“Jason!” she chirped, eyes bright. “I—I saved you a piece! I heard yelling so I thought—”

“Don’t.”

She froze.

He hadn’t meant to snarl it. But it came out like a snarl anyway.

She blinked, uncertain.

“I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” he spat.

Her eyes widened. Her hands gripped the plate a little tighter.

“You think I want anything from you?”

“I—Jason, I just wanted to—”

“To what? Be the good little daughter? The perfect little Wayne?”

Her lip trembled.

“You think you’re not like her?” he hissed, voice full of venom. “You’re just like your mother. Ivy’s little weed. That’s what you are. All sweetness on the surface and rot underneath.”

Her eyes welled. “I’m not—”

“You think a few cookies and smiles make you clean?” His voice cracked. “You’re just like her. Evil. Dirty. Manipulative. Bruce should’ve left you where he found you.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t cry.

She just set the plate down on the stairs.

And walked away.

Jason would never remember the exact words. He buried them somewhere deep.

But she never baked banana bread again.

He never apologized.

Not properly. Not with the words she deserved.

After that night—after he spit venom down the stairs and shattered something he couldn’t name—he just stopped talking.

And then, weeks later, he showed up at her window again.

Midnight. Rain. Bruised ribs under his jacket. She opened the latch like nothing had ever happened.

She didn’t bring up the hallway. Or the banana bread. Or the name weed.

She just let him in.

And sat beside him while he muttered about patrol and crime bosses and stupid decisions Bruce made.

And she listened.

Always listened.

Asked about his nights. Asked if he’d eaten. Asked why he never stayed longer.

But she never talked about herself.

And he never asked.

He told himself it was fine.

She was fine.

She baked again eventually. Left muffins in the fridge. Cookies in Tupperware. Pies on the cooling rack when she knew he’d be back.

And he took.

He always took.

⸻

Tonight, standing alone in the kitchen, it finally hit him.

There was nothing on the counter.

No muffins. No pies. No scones. No glass containers waiting in the fridge with a sticky note bearing a tiny hand-drawn flower.

And worse—

The houseplants were gone.

Not dead.

Just… gone.

The little pots she used to water every morning. The vines that used to curl around the cabinet handles. The single white lily that always sat in the corner by the coffee machine, just because she liked it there.

All gone.

The windowsill was empty. Bare.

The air didn’t smell like jasmine or lavender anymore—it just smelled like… air.

Jason stared.

He couldn’t explain it, but something tightened in his chest. Something low and wrong.

He opened the fridge again.

Still nothing.

His hands curled around the edge of the counter.

It wasn’t just about the food. It was never about the food.

It was her.

He stood there for a long time.

In the middle of the kitchen, hands still braced on cold stone, staring at nothing.

Trying to figure out why his chest felt tight.

Why his breathing had gone shallow.

Why the air felt heavier now than it had during any firefight.

He didn’t know what it was.

He didn’t know that it would get worse in the next few days.

Much worse.

____

It was rare for the manor to be this quiet in the middle of the day.

Dick had dropped in without warning, like always—straight from Blüdhaven after wrapping up a double-night stakeout, sore from sleeping on rooftop gravel and a little guilty for how long it had been since he’d set foot in the house.

He hadn’t seen Bruce, not properly.

Hadn’t seen the others in weeks.

Cass had texted something vague and cryptic about “things changing.”

And Alfred had responded to his check-in with a brief “We miss you, Master Richard. Some more than others.”

He assumed that meant Jason or Damian had started another round of drama.

Typical.

The house had smelled the same—lemon polish, faint smoke from the fireplace, something deeper buried beneath. Maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe not.

He passed through the library, the sitting room, Bruce’s study—

Empty.

But Bruce had clearly been there recently. The chair was warm, the coffee mug half-full. A thick, overstuffed folder sat on the edge of the desk, one word scribbled on a post-it stuck to the cover.

Y/N.

Dick didn’t touch it. Just glanced at it, vaguely thinking Bruce was probably updating school records or something—maybe another evaluation of her “involvement” in family business, which Bruce had always firmly kept her out of.

He didn’t question it.

He didn’t question much when it came to her.

He hadn’t thought about her in… he couldn’t even remember.

God. How long had it been since he last saw her?

What did she look like now?

How old even was she?

Twelve? Thirteen? No… wait. She was younger than Damian, right?

That realization hit like a quiet slap.

He didn’t even know.

⸻

He wandered upstairs, lazy steps drawing him through parts of the manor he barely remembered.

It wasn’t until he reached the east wing—the forgotten hallway, tucked behind the third landing—that he paused.

The dust here was thicker. The air colder. The lights overhead flickered faintly. There were no paintings on this side. No signs of family. Just cobwebs.

And one slightly open door.

Something pulled at him. A flicker of memory. A tiny voice calling him from years ago.

“Dicky! Dicky, look! I made you a flower crown—see? See? You have to wear it or it’s bad luck!”

He pushed the door open.

⸻

The room was small—too small for a Wayne.

Not much bigger than a closet with a window.

But he knew immediately.

It was hers.

There were flowers everywhere. Hanging vines along the walls, potted plants clustered at the window, tiny wildflowers peeking out of chipped ceramic cups like they’d grown there on their own.

They hadn’t.

She had done this. Like she always had.

Like his Little Flower always did.

The nickname struck him so hard it nearly buckled his knees.

He remembered her as a toddler. Barely talking. Always clinging. Always with a drawing or a dandelion in her hands, trying to shove it into his palm like it was treasure.

He’d called her that once.

Little Flower.

And she’d giggled so hard she fell over.

He hadn’t said it in years.

He hadn’t seen her in years.

And now?

The room didn’t look like it belonged to a child.

It didn’t look like it belonged to anyone.

The bed was neatly made, sheets no longer the soft pink-and-green florals he half-remembered. Now they were gray. Plain. Clinical.

The drawings were gone. No family stick figures. No bright crayon hearts. No mess.

It was clean.

Too clean.

Lifeless.

⸻

Dick stepped inside slowly, fingertips brushing along the bookshelf where little paper crafts used to sit.

Empty.

He moved toward the desk—stopped.

There were old impressions on the wood.

Shapes from frames that had been moved.

Photos that had once stood there.

And were now gone.

Something twisted in his gut.

He didn’t know what it was.

But it felt wrong.

This felt wrong.

The girl he remembered would’ve had plants climbing the ceiling by now. There would’ve been glitter on the floor. A pile of flower crowns made from weeds. Scribbled notes taped to the wall. Half-burnt candles that smelled like vanilla.

But this room?

It felt like someone had been erasing themselves.

Dick exhaled shakily.

And for the first time in a very long time, he realized—

He couldn’t picture her face anymore.

Not as she was now.

He could only see the toddler version. The one with dirt on her cheeks and stars in her eyes. One he had not seen in a while.

And he hated that.

taglist: @justwannabecat @c4xcocoa

@charlenexoxo1

@galaxypup

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@runaaclou

[stylesispunk]

"whatever you'd like us to be" | part 3

harry castillo (materialists) x fem!reader

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: the one where you and harry have your first fight.

w.c: 5,7k >

warnings: age gap (harry is 45, reader is 29-30), fake dating, fluff, angst, miscommunication. a lot of kissing for two people who are just pretending to date. me, and that's the biggest warning.

A/N: Hi! I wanted to share a brief update with you. This one was fun to write, but at the same time, it feels like coming back to my angsty roots. The game between them is getting too real now. I was thinking about that specific Pedro's fit, that green shirt and bye. Your reblogs and comments mean a great deal to me, so please don't hesitate to share your thoughts, as I truly enjoy reading them. Thank you so much, and happy reading!

Remember, I now have an AO3 account, where I'm also posting the chapters.

The moment Harry’s lips brushed yours again, softer and more insistent this time, something in you just cracked.

You started laughing out of nowhere.

It bubbled out of your chest before you could stop it, and you felt him freeze for a second, pulling back just enough to frown playfully down at you.

“Are you—are you laughing right now?” he asked, one brow arched, trying so hard to look offended, but the corners of his mouth were already twitching.

You pressed a hand to your face, shaking your head as you kept giggling. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why. I think I’m just—” you gasped between laughs, “I’m tired and this whole ridiculous night and… you… and your face when you kissed me like we’re in the middle of a movie...”

“Wow,” Harry muttered, crossing his arms, pretending to be wounded. “My face?”

You doubled over in laughter then, the sheer absurdity of everything hitting you at once. And when you glanced up again, he was laughing too, shaking his head, his hand on his chest like he was genuinely offended but absolutely not.

“I swear to God,” he grinned, pointing at you, “you are magical.”

“I know,” you managed between breathless laughs. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

He moved closer, eyes soft, and without thinking twice, he kissed the tip of your nose.

And you laughed again.

And so did he.

Something broke. Perhaps the wall used as limit between the both of you, perhaps the fear. You had no clue. But all of this…You had no idea how to stop a feeling that had came in a natural way.

You were addictive to Harry in a way he could had never imagined.

And Harry? Harry was the kind of love you had always dreamed of.

After the both of you had stopped laughing. He glanced at you, longer than it was needed.

“Can I use your bathroom?” he asked, brushing up the warmth that tinted his cheeks in red color.

You gave a soft laugh as you stepped aside to let him in. “Yeah, it’s down the hall, first door on the left.”

Harry grinned, brushing past you just close enough to make your heart stutter in your chest again. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, trying and failing to fight back the smile tugging at your lips as he disappeared down the hall. The door clicked shut, and you exhaled a long, shaky breath, leaning your back against the wall for a second.

What the hell are you doing?

This was supposed to be fake. Safe. A harmless deal to get people off your backs, not stolen glances and soft kisses and him making your heart trip over itself like some idiot in a bad rom-com.

And now he was in your apartment. Using your bathroom. Like he belonged there. In the space of your life.

You pushed off the wall and wandered into the tiny living room, absently tidying the already tidy throw pillows, too aware of your own reflection in the dark window, the faintest hint of a blush still on your cheeks.

A moment later, the bathroom door creaked and Harry’s voice floated out.

You didn’t even realize how heavy your eyelids had gotten until you felt yourself sway a little on your feet. The adrenaline, the tension of the night, it all hit you at once like a wave you couldn’t fight anymore.

Without thinking, you made your way to your bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to take off your heels or fix the way your dress twisted awkwardly around you. One of your heels dangled off your foot while the other was half-planted on the floor, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The soft, familiar comfort of your mattress felt like heaven after this night.

Somewhere in the haze between awake and sleep, you heard footsteps. A familiar scent, something like clean cedar and warmth, surrounded you as Harry appeared in the doorway.

You barely cracked one eye open, your voice a lazy, mumbled whisper.

“How many hours were you there?”

He huffed a soft laugh, moving closer. “I was in there like for five minutes.”

You let out a weak, sleepy little laugh, eyes falling shut again as you murmured, “Felt like hours.”

Harry crouched down beside the bed, his hand gently brushing your arm, careful, tender. “Hey, do you want to change out of this dress? Or are you committing to this look for the night?”

You smiled; eyes still closed. “Committing.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a stray piece of hair off your face, and you felt the mattress dip slightly as he sat on the edge.

“You have those tiny soaps in your bathroom.”

You laughed. “Hey, those came in a gift basket! And they smell amazing, don’t lie.”

Harry huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as his arms slid beneath you, one around your back and the other under your knees, effortlessly lifting you a few inches off the bed.

“Let’s change you into your pajamas,” he murmured, a teasing edge in his voice. “Okay?”

Your eyes fluttered open just enough to smirk at him. “I sleep naked,” you joked, your words slow and slurred with exhaustion but your grin entirely smug.

He groaned, his head dropping for a second against your shoulder as he let out a laugh. “Oh, shut up,” he muttered, the warmth of his breath brushing against your neck, making your skin tingle.

“Not my fault you’re the one insisting on taking care of me” you teased softly, letting your head fall against his shoulder as he sat you up.

He grabbed one oversized sleep shirt from the edge of your bed that he supposed it was your pajama. The soft fabric smelled a little like laundry detergent and you, your perfume. A scent he had found himself becoming addicted to. He held it up for you to see it.

“Will this do?”

You grinned; eyes half-lidded as you reached out for it. “That’s my pajama.”

Harry helped tug the dress’s zipper down, averting his eyes with dramatic over-the-top modesty as if was fighting looking at the bare skin in front of him, though the faint smirk on his face betrayed him.

“Such a gentleman,” you teased, pulling the sleep shirt over your head.

“If you say so,” he replied, tossing your dress onto the nearby chair before helping you lay back down properly, your head hitting the pillow with a sigh of relief.

He draped the blanket over you and lingered for a second, his fingers brushing your cheek.

“You, okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, the words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. All you managed was a quiet, honest, “Yeah.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then crouched down beside the bed, his face so close to yours you could see the stars inside those brown eyes even in the dim light.

“Do you want me to take your makeup off?” he asked gently, his voice barely a murmur like he was afraid to break whatever strange, delicate thing had settled between you both tonight.

You huffed a quiet, amused breath, your lips curling up. “You offering spa services now, Harry?”

He grinned, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Full package, sweetheart. No extra charge.”

You laughed, something soft and weightless in your chest, and nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

He stood and disappeared into your bathroom for a second, coming back with a makeup wipe he must’ve found in one of the drawers. He knelt beside you again and carefully started wiping away the makeup from your skin, slow, tender strokes that made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t fully understand.

Neither of you spoke. The room was quiet except for your steady breaths and the soft drag of the wipe against your skin.

“You’ve got no idea how beautiful you look like this,” he murmured, almost to himself, like it wasn’t meant to slip out.

Your eyes fluttered open to look at him, and for a second, you didn’t have it in you to tease him.

“Harry…”

He met your gaze, his expression open and raw in a way you hadn’t seen before. Like the carefully crafted version of him that belonged to the world out there didn’t exist in here, in your tiny apartment.

“I’m sorry for tonight,” he said again, his hand brushing a thumb over your cheek. “For being a selfish prick.”

Your heart ached and melted in the same beat. You caught his hand in yours, holding it there.

“I’m still mad,” you whispered. “But you are everything but a selfish prick” you smiled at him.

Harry let out a soft, breathless laugh, the kind that sounded like it surprised even him. His shoulders dropped a little, like the weight he’d been carrying all evening loosened just enough to breathe.

“You’re dangerous to me, you know that?” he murmured, eyes flickering between yours and your mouth like he was fighting the urge to kiss you again. “I come here thinking I’m the one calling the shots and you… you wreck me that easily.”

You grinned, your thumb absently brushing over the back of his hand. “Good.”

He chuckled, leaning his forehead gently against yours, his free hand cradling the side of your face. The warmth of him so close, the soft, unguarded way he was looking at you, it made your heart stumble in your chest.

He placed a kiss on your cheek “Thank you for blessing my life with your light.”

You chuckled, “Goodnight, Harry.”

His smile softened, something almost reverent in his gaze as he whispered back, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, his hand still against your face, your fingers tangled with his. And then, like he didn’t quite want to let go, he gave your hand one final squeeze before slipping away, turning off the bedside lamp and letting the soft hush of the room wrap around you both.

Even in the dark, you could sense him looking your way one last time.

And just before sleep pulled you under, you heard his voice, low and rough and meant only for you.

“Sweet dreams, my treasure.”

During the Saturday midday, the lunch rush was starting to pick up, the warm hum of conversation blending with the whir of the espresso machine and the occasional clang of cups against saucers. You were halfway through rattling off instructions to Mia and Celine about restocking the pastries when the bell above the door chimed.

“Mia, make sure we’ve got enough croissants for the next hour, and double-check the almond ones, they’ve been flying out.”

She nodded, jotting it down on her little notepad. You turned to Evan, pointing toward the register.

“Ev, can you handle the front while I—”

And then you saw Harry.

Standing in the doorway of your coffee shop like something straight out that movie scene you would’ve rolled your eyes at any other day. Hair a little messy fresh out the shower, sunglasses perched on his head, that infuriatingly perfect green shirt with his collar, unbuttoned.

Your heart stuttered so hard you were half-convinced everyone might’ve heard it.

He spotted you instantly, his whole face changing the second his eyes landed on yours, softening, his mouth curving into that boyish, slightly crooked smile that did terribly inconvenient things to your stomach and set your belly on fire.

You swallowed, blinking like you were trying to ground yourself, still holding the half-empty tray of muffins in your hands.

“Uh…Ev, cover me for a second, yeah?”

You barely waited for Evan’s distracted “Yeah, boss, got it” before making your way toward the front.

Harry leaned against the counter, as casual as if he hadn’t nearly broken and mend your heart last night, as if he belonged in this little world of yours.

“Hey, trouble” he greeted softly, his voice a touch rough around the edges, maybe nerves, maybe lack of sleep, maybe… something else.

You crossed your arms, trying for composed and unimpressed, though your pulse was doing its own thing entirely.

“Didn’t expect to see you here at this hour,” you said, arching a brow.

“I didn’t come here for the coffee today,” he replied, that small grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He glanced around the place like it was the first time he’d really seen it. Then his gaze settled back on you, they even darkened a little.

“Came for you.”

“Harry, I know I’m the boss here, but I’m working.”

Harry chuckled softly, leaning a little closer across the counter, his voice dropping to that familiar teasing murmur only meant for you.

“Yeah? Well, I’m on my break,” he smirked.

You rolled your eyes, biting down a smile you weren’t about to let him fully see. “You don’t work here, Harry.”

“Details.” He shrugged, shameless, that playful gleam in his eyes making your pulse skip again. “Can’t a man visit the woman who’s been haunting his thoughts since she kicked him out of her apartment last night?”

You sighed, shaking your head as you grabbed a clean rag and started wiping down the counter just to give your hands something to do.

“I didn’t kick you out,” you mumbled.

“You practically tucked me in and sent me home,” he shot back, grinning wider when your cheeks gave you away, warming with color. “Which was admittedly very adorable, by the way.”

“Harry…” you warned, though the edge in your voice was soft, barely there.

He held up his hands in mock surrender, but his expression sobered, that teasing edge melting into something gentler.

“I just wanted to see you,” he said, quieter now. “Make sure we’re… okay. And if it takes me ordering a dozen pastries to keep you standing here a few more minutes, I’ll do it.”

You glanced at him, his eyes open and sincere in a way that tugged at something deep inside you. The little hum of the shop around you faded for a second.

“I’m mad.” you muttered, not quite able to hide the softness behind it.

But harry completely ignored you, “Hey, Mia, right? May you take my order, please?” he asked, leaning casually on the counter.

Mia blinked, cheeks a little pink. “Uh—y-yeah, of course! What can I get for you?”

You crossed your arms, arching a brow. “Harry…” you warned.

He shot you a sidelong glance, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Since the boss is too busy to serve me,” he teased, “I’ll have whatever pastry she makes best. And a vanilla late. Extra hot.”

Mia gave you an uncertain look, like she wasn’t sure if she was about to get in trouble or win employee of the month. You sighed dramatically, shaking your head.

“It’s fine, Mia. I’ll get it.”

Mia gave a little relieved laugh and stepped aside.

Harry straightened up, that smug grin still in place. “See? Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“I fucking hate you,” you muttered under your breath, ducking behind the counter, grabbing a fresh pastry from the display like you weren’t internally melting under the weight of his gaze.

Harry chuckled, following your movement with a lazy, satisfied kind of grin. “You keep saying that, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning his elbows on the counter to watch you work. “But somehow, you keep feeding me.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, plating the pastry with a little too much force. “That’s called customer service, asshole.”

“Mmm, sure it is.” He grinned wider, tilting his head. “You always call your customers assholes?”

“Only the ones who deserve it.” You slid the plate toward him with a sharp little smirk.

Harry reached for it, his fingers brushing yours for a second longer than necessary. His voice dropped low enough that only you could hear.

“At least, I’m your favorite?”

Your stomach flipped. Damn him. And you hated how easy it was for him to do this, to walk in here like he owned the place, like last night hadn’t left your heart in knots.

You sighed, shaking your head with a helpless, reluctant smile as you handed him his coffee. “Don’t push your luck.”

You watched him casually grab a seat near the window, his posture relaxed but somehow still commanding the whole space. From behind the counter, you caught glimpses of him making calls, occasionally typing on his phone, all while seeming completely at ease in your little shop.

Evan sidled up beside you, elbow resting on the counter with a knowing grin. “You know, boss, you’ve been staring at him for like ten minutes.”

You rolled your eyes, hoping your face wasn’t too obvious. “I’m not staring.”

“Sure, you’re not,” Evan teased, voice dropping as if sharing a secret. “Boss, you’re practically drooling.”

You shot him a warning glare and quickly turned back to the orders piling up, but you couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through your chest every time you caught Harry’s gaze, even if he didn’t know you were watching.

An hour slipped by. The midday rush had died down, and you were finally catching your breath when the bell above the door chimed.

You didn’t think much of it at first, just another customer, until you looked up, and your stomach did a full somersault.

Harry’s mom and his sister.

Walking into your coffee shop like as it they had picked your café as their weekly meeting place.

Your eyes widened so fast you were sure everyone in the place could hear your heart slamming against your ribs. You felt the unmistakable heat crawl up your neck and into your face, and Evan, ever the menace, leaned in with a smirk.

“Oh my God,” he whispered under his breath. “Boss, you’re so red.”

You sent daggers to him, and he immediately backed up.

Harry looked up from his phone, and the second he saw them, a grin spread across his face, but not before his gaze flickered toward you. Like he already knew this was going to fluster you, and maybe… enjoyed it just a little too much.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to take a deep breath, wipe your palms on your apron, and walk over to their table like you weren’t internally debating sprinting out the back door.

Harry was already smirking when you reached them, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair, the other nursing a cup of coffee he hadn’t even touched.

His mom spotted you first, and her whole face lit up like she’d just run into a long-lost friend.

“Darling!” she exclaimed, rising slightly from her seat as if to greet you properly. “How are you?”

And if that wasn’t bad enough, his sister, sitting across from her, grinned like she’d just been let in on the world’s juiciest secret.

You swallowed hard, your voice wobbling only slightly.

“I’m good, thank you. Um—how are you both?”

Harry’s mom reached out, catching your hand in hers with so much tenderness.

“Oh, so much better now that we finally get to see your place! It’s adorable, just like Harry said it was.”

You blinked, side-eyeing Harry, who had the audacity to wink at you.

You cleared your throat, trying to remember how words worked.

“Uh—thank you. Really. And it’s nice to see you again, Liz.”

Liz leaned her elbow on the table, chin propped in her hand as she grinned up at you.

“You’re even prettier in daylight. And honestly, we’ve been dying to try this coffee ever since someone wouldn’t stop talking about you.”

You felt your face burn again, and somewhere behind you; Evan coughed a laugh.

“I—uh—I’ll get you both something,” you stammered, retreating a little. “On the house.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t have to—”

“No, it’s fine. Really.” You flashed the politest, not-at-all-panicking smile you could manage before turning and practically speed-walking back behind the counter.

As soon as you were out of earshot, you slapped Evan on the arm. “Don’t. Say. A word.”

He just grinned. “I didn’t have to. Your face did all the talking.”

You didn’t even look back at the table as you practically dove into your tiny office behind the counter, shutting the door and leaning against it like it might protect you from the whirlwind Harry Castillo had just dragged into your coffee shop.

Your pulse was still racing, your stomach a tangled knot of nerves and frustration. God, you could kill him. Who just shows up in your work unannounced, plants himself there like he owns the place, and then drags his mom and sister in like it’s some casual brunch meet-and-greet?

You hated how easily he made himself at home in your world. Hated that your heart still fluttered like some reckless idiot at the sight of him.

A knock came at the office door a moment later before Evan let himself in, carrying a tray of two iced lattes and a pastry.

“Don’t stab me,” he said lightly, setting them down on your desk. “I come in peace. And with gossip.”

You gave him a look. “What now?”

Evan smirked. “Harry Castillo asked for you.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you were in your office. Which is true.” He shrugged, then grinned. “He looked kinda bummed. Poor guy. Big bad finance guy being iced out by the boss lady.”

“Good,” you muttered, plopping down in your chair and scowling at the door. “He deserves to be bummed. Who the hell does this, Evan? Who brings his family without warning? I can’t—” you gestured vaguely to the air, “—do this. I didn’t sign up for… whatever the hell this is.”

Evan sat on the edge of your desk, one brow arched. “I thought you knew them already?

You glared at him. “I do. But it’s not that simple.”

“Mmm,” Evan hummed knowingly. “Sure seems like it should be. But hey — for what it’s worth? His mom and sister seem pretty crazy about you.”

You groaned, leaning your head back against the chair. “I’m going to throw him out the second I step out there.”

Evan patted your shoulder. “I’ll light a candle for him.”

And with that, he grabbed the empty tray and sauntered back out, leaving you alone in your storm of tangled feelings.

The worst part? A small, traitorous part of you didn’t want Harry to leave your side.

A few minutes later, another knock came at the door, but this one was softer. You huffed out a breath, assuming it was Evan again coming back to poke the bear.

“Evan, I swear to God—”

The door cracked open, and it wasn’t Evan.

Harry peeked in, his stupidly handsome face cautious and unapologetic. His hair a little mussed like he’d been running his hand through it, he was nervous. The moment your eyes met his, your heart betrayed you with a sharp, uninvited thud.

“Hey,” he said quietly, lingering in the doorway. “Can I…?”

You crossed your arms over your chest, giving him a pointed glare. “I’m working.”

“I know,” Harry murmured, stepping inside anyway and closing the door behind him. “Just… needed a minute.”

You didn’t say anything, just watched as he shifted his weight awkwardly, his confidence from earlier stripped down to something more vulnerable.

“I didn’t mean to blindside you,” he went on, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I wasn’t thinking. My mom and Liz just… they were nearby and wanted to stop by, and it was a dumb call not to ask you first. I’m sorry.”

You wanted to stay mad. You really did. But his voice had that unguarded edge again, the same one from your apartment last night, and it made it so damn hard.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “You’re breaking all the rules again.”

He smiled faintly, a shadow of the cocky grin you knew. “Yeah… I figured.”

You sighed, your walls crumbling just a little. “You can’t keep doing this, Harry. You can’t drop into my life whenever you feel like it and drag your whole world with you. I’m not some accessory you can introduce like a prop. I’m… me. This is my place. My job. My people. Whatever mess we have, that’s outside and just for pretending, so stop playing with me.”

Harry’s grin faltered, and for a second, you saw it, the flicker of guilt, of something raw and sincere beneath the charm he wore like armor.

“I’m not playing with you,” he said, voice low, steady in a way that made your pulse stutter. “I swear to God, I’m not. I… I get it, alright? I’ve been a selfish bastard about this, about us, if there even is an us, and I keep showing up without thinking how it affects you. That’s on me.”

You kept your arms crossed, every word digging under your skin because part of you wanted to believe him and another part didn’t know if you should.

“Harry, this was supposed to be fake. A plan. A harmless distraction to piss off an ex and get your ego stitched back together. I never signed up for this.”

“I know,” he breathed, his hand dragging through his hair like he was trying to pull himself together. “I swear it wasn’t planned. I wasn’t thinking. I just… fuck, I wanted to see you.”

Your throat tightened painfully, because damn it, this wasn’t supposed to hurt like this.

He took a careful step forward, closing the space between you. His voice softened, the way it did when it was just you and him, stripped of every audience, every performance.

“Let me be part of your life, as a friend at least.” he admitted. “

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, I know.”

You sighed, the last of your walls giving way, exhausted from holding them up for so long.

“Fine,” you muttered.

The clocked marked eight p.m. The sun had set a long time ago and you had sent Evan, Celine and Mia home, promising you were going to be in charge of closing the shop tonight. You were wiping down the last table, the chairs already stacked, your playlist of soft acoustic covers playing low in the background.

The bell above the door jingled softly, and even without looking up, you knew it was Harry.

It was getting late, the street outside quieting down, the golden glow of your café’s hanging lights reflecting off the glass.

You sighed, a tired smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you straightened up and turned to the door.

There he was, in the same outfit as before, hair a little messy, two brown paper bags in his hands. His smile was small, almost sheepish this time.

“I brought peace offerings,” he announced softly, lifting the bags.

You crossed your arms, trying your best to look unimpressed, though the warmth blooming in your chest made it difficult.

“It’s late,” you said, glancing at the clock. “Kitchen’s closed. Staff’s gone. You should be, too.”

“I know,” he replied, stepping fully inside, letting the door fall shut behind him with a soft click. “But you weren’t answering my texts, and I figured you’d still be here. You always stay up late.”

You raised an eyebrow.

Harry shrugged with a crooked grin, setting the bags down on one of the tables you hadn’t cleared yet.

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched up. “What’s in the bags?”

“Pasta,” he grinned, opening one to reveal takeout containers from that hole-in-the-wall place you’d dragged him to once and swore by. The kind of place no one would guess a guy like him would even step foot in. “And wine but technically not, since you get a bit tipsy.”

You tried not to melt, but damn it, it was getting harder. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grinned, pulling out two forks and waving one at you. “

You sighed, dropping the rag on the counter and walking over, the exhaustion of the day settling heavy in your bones, but somehow, seeing him here, looking at you like you were the only thing in the room, made it all feel a little easier to carry.

“Thank you” you melted, sitting across from him as he started unpacking the food.

His smile softened, and this time it wasn’t cocky, wasn’t teasing.

“Do you have glasses?” he asked, looking around.

“No, but I have two mugs inside my office” you replied, walking towards there.

Then you came back with the two mismatched mugs from your office, one with a faded Central Perk logo, the other a plain white one you’d meant to replace for months. Harry grinned when he saw them.

“Classy,” he teased softly, but you caught the fondness in his eyes as he took them from your hands.

“Shut up. It’s all we have,” you smirked, leaning your hip against the counter as he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and poured the deep red liquid into each mug.

The café was so quiet now, just the soft hum of the fridge in the back, the faint music still playing, and your heartbeat hammering too loud in your ears as he stood so close. His shoulder brushed yours, and for a second, neither of you said anything.

Then, you felt him stiffen, his hand pausing mid-pour as if some invisible current passed between you. He turned his head, his gaze locking with yours.

And before you could even take a breath, his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t careful this time. It wasn’t the testing, uncertain kind of kiss you’d shared in the middle of that party, or the hesitant one in your apartment. This was desperate, unspoken words crashing into each other. You melted instantly, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt as he stepped into you, deepening the kiss like he’d been starving for it.

Your back hit the counter, and in one easy move, he lifted you up onto it, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to keep him close.

He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, both of you breathless. His forehead pressed against yours, his hands gripping your thighs like he wasn’t sure if he should be apologizing or saying something else entirely.

“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” he murmured.

Your lips curved into a smile, catching your breath. “Break the rules?” you asked.

“Oh, shut up for once,” Harry grinned against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, like he was savoring it, like you were the only thing in the world worth tasting.

His lips trailed down to your jaw, his hand cradling the back of your neck as he pressed gentle kisses there, then to the hollow just beneath your ear. You let out a soft breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he moved lower, the scrape of his stubble against your skin making your stomach flutter.

“God, you drive me fucking insane,” he murmured against your neck, his words a little slurred from the wine and whatever spell was holding the two of you there, alone in the dark café. “I swear… Lucy had no—”

And you froze. Like ice water down your spine.

Your whole body tensed; your hands stiff against his chest. You felt it, felt the air shift between you like a thread snapping.

“What?” you whispered, pulling back just enough to look at him.

Harry blinked, realizing what he’d let slip. His face paled, his mouth opening, closing like he couldn’t figure out which words to reach for.

“Wait... I didn’t—”

But it didn’t matter. The crack in the moment was already there, and you felt the ache blooming in your chest.

You slid off the counter, untangling yourself from his hold.

“Get out, Harry.”

“Hey—hey, no, listen to me—”

“I said, get out.” Your voice shook, but you kept your chin up, kept your heart from spilling out right there on the café floor. “Take your dinner, take your wine. And leave.”

He stepped closer; his face was pained. “It’s not what you think—”

“No, Harry,” you cut him off, voice steady now, sharp in a way you didn’t even feel anymore. “For once… don’t break the rules. Just go.”

And you turned your back on him. Because if you didn’t, you knew you wouldn’t be able to.

Harry stood frozen for a heartbeat, watching you turn away like you were slipping through his fingers. The sound of the mug tapping softly against the counter was like a breaking point.

“Please,” he whispered, voice raw.

“I said out!” you raised your voice, words came out sharper than intended, slicing through the heavy, aching silence of the empty café. Harry flinched like you’d actually struck him, his shoulders tensing, jaw clenching as he looked down at the floor.

“I get it,” he said quietly, his voice rough, almost hoarse. “I fucked up.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight, your hands shaking just enough that you had to brace them against the counter.

Harry lingered there for a beat longer, like he wanted to fight for the right to stay, but knew he didn’t have it.

Your stomach twisted, some awful bit of anger, hurt, shame and the sharpest pull of affection you weren’t ready to admit.

The door opened, a cool gust of night air rushing in as he stepped outside. He glanced back once, his gaze catching yours, and the look on his face damn near shattered you.

Then he was gone.

And God, you felt so foolish, still waiting for confessions of love that never would come.

You felt stupid to even think that a man like him could have fallen in love with you.  

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[thewritingfairy]

↪ 09. Oh no!

PREV PART Trigger warning: (past, current) mental + physical + emotional neglect, (name) pretends everything is fine, talking down of oneself, Reader isn't out towards the batfamily yet, mental gymnastics, disabilties are finally talked about, guilt, I think this is my longest chapter yet, pls tell me if I missed any warnings main m.list        series m.list

When you woke up your body felt sluggish as you try to remember what happened, you must have a fever, why else would Alfred be at your bedside sleeping. Seeing him there reminds you of the times your heart ached for his comfort, for the times you wished he would finally stand up for you. But he didn’t, he never takes your side.

Their reaction to you passing out must’ve been extreme, because the moment you tried to manoeuvre past Alfred Dick was there, standing in front of your door with a panicked expression. “You shouldn’t get out of bed,” he says with an attempted smile. It just makes you narrow your eyes and spitefully stand up. You ignore how the room spins and how your pain spreads to your neck and fingertips. It’s almost as if Dick can sense your discomfort (it would be a first) because the moment you lose your balance he’s there to keep you standing straight. “you really are stubborn.”

His words weren’t meant to make you flinch, but they still did. You don’t trust him, and you might never, anything negative from him puts you on edge (even if his statement is true). You never know how any of your siblings will react, and quite frankly you always found Dick the most difficult from all of your siblings. Impossible to read and always wearing that fake smile, he always used that smile when he interacted with you, keeping his real smiles for his true family. “Don’t touch me,” you hiss, raising your voice enough to wake Alfred up and enough for Dick to step back.

“(name),” he whispers as he moves towards you, checking your temperature with his hand not allowing you to flinch away from him. “Good, no fever….” Yet your eyes look anywhere but at his.

“Now that you’ve done the bare minimum to keep yourselves from wallowing in guilt,” you start, ignoring how Alfred’s face falls, how Dick’s breath becomes ragged and uneven. “I want you both to leave, I need to change for school.”

“You don’t seriously think you are going to school,” Dick says as his eyebrows furrow, his arm crossed on his chest. “not after passing out like that.”

You laugh, you couldn’t help it. Now they want to care for your health. “Didn’t you guys not send me to a hospital after I was viciously beaten and possibly had internal bleeding?” you shot back, and finally they look guilty. Their guilty faces and nervous ticks make you smile, finally you feel heard. “I pass out quite often, especially since then, I am going to school so get out, I’m going to be late.”

“At least let me drop you off,” Dick says before Alfred can protests. “it would make sense, Damian’s classes are in one of your school buildings today.”

You laugh. “Oh, he doesn’t want to be seen with me. Don’t you know?” But when you see Alfred’s nails digging in his palm you start to feel guilty. Perhaps Jason’s right and you are being a piece of shit. “But fine, I suppose, just get out I need to do my hair and put my uniform on.”

They listen, but once you close your door Alfred and Dick stare at each other. Having a conversation with each other with just their eyes. You are hiding something about your health, and they’ll force to the doctor if they must. “I’ll brief Damian of the plan,” Dick tells Alfred. “I’ll try to get more information out of them.”

Alfred nods and sighs; “Duke has been helpful but evasive, but it’s clear he doesn’t trust us.”

Dick nods, and he can’t help but think; ‘Who would? If they knew what we did?’

“He’s honouring (Name)’s autonomy,” Dick acknowledges as he brushed his hair back with his hands. “more then we have ever done…”

Awh, the poor bats are becoming self-aware, and guilt is weighing heavy. Too bad that it isn’t enough to compensate for your pain.

You, who had quickly done your hair (honestly you tried, it looks terrible but it is too much for you to handle right now, so it’s alright) and put on your uniform, was now in the kitchen, grabbing a quick bite to eat and make some lunch. It was important to nourish your body after such a health incident. You need to take care of yourself, alright? Otherwise Maria and Duke would absolutely hound you on this. You just wish Cassandra wasn’t here, analysing your every move. “You’re in pain,” she says simply. “you have been for a while.”

“Wow,” you say without thinking, looking over your shoulder slightly amused. “you’ve only noticed now?”

“I’m not talking about mental pain,” she says, and that makes you freeze, dropping your lunch box in your bag and you couldn’t be more glad about getting one with an extra safety lock. “you are ill.” You chuckle, you couldn’t believe it. Cassandra knows, and she has known for a while. “Is it because of Jason?”

You turn around as you place your back on the counter. “What has Duke told you?” you aren’t angry with him, no, whatever he told them, it doesn’t matter. He’s just trying to help. “Or is that just a small personal theory?”

“A theory, Duke has been evasive with his answers,” she admits, her eyes narrowing as she tries to read your body language. But it comes up the same as always, on edge, in pain and angry. “said that he wouldn’t break his future sister’s trust.”

“Huh, so Brucie is adopting him,” you comment.

“But he has told us the full story about what Jason did,” Stephanie says, coming into the room pretending as if she hasn’t been eavesdropping from the moment she realised Cassandra was trying to get answers out of you. “I’m sorry, if I knew-”

You scoff, cutting off her sentences. Your eyes watering, you always wanted acknowledgement of what happened. You wanted these girls to tell you what your family did was wrong. But it’s too late now, and Cassandra could read that. She could see your shoulders tense, biting your lip as you try and keep your breathing steady. You feel unsafe, and she wonders if she didn’t ignore your pain. If she realised the damage they were doing to you, would you be happier? Would you be healthier?

Oh, having a moral compass can be quite difficult, can’t it?

“I don’t want none of your apologies,” you tell them, your eyes look dull and they feel lifeless. Something Stephanie often saw with the victims her father created. Is she just as bad as her father? At this point she would say to a degree. And if you will allow her to, she’ll do anything to make it right. But there is no time for that, Dick is here to drive you to school. “and our conversation is done, Cassandra, be sure to keep your mouth shut.”

While Stephanie hasn’t heard the whole conversation you two had (and could you really call it a conversation?) Cassandra obviously asked something about your health. Something that you have hidden from them all, even legally.

Well illegally, seriously, how did you perfect replicating Bruce’s signature? Even Tim couldn’t replicate it to that degree, if he were to compare your falsified signature with one of Bruce’s actual signatures it barely has any differences (Barbara would love to learn from you). The ink only looks thicker on your falsified one, Bruce always kept his pen-strokes light and precise.

But there is no time to ponder about that right now, they need to focus on you actually getting into Dick’s care. He bugged it with one of his earpieces so that the bat-family could analyse you interacting with Dick and Damian. The two you always interacted with the most before Jason’s attack, but even that was limited.

When you got into the car, you notice how Damian was sulking. Something you’ve never seen him do, besides that one time that Bruce scolded him loud enough that you could hear him from your room. You ignore him and buckle yourself in, joining him on the backseat. “Don’t you want to sit in the front seat?” Damian asks confused, and you shake your head. No way in hell are you sitting next to Dick.

“I don’t like the passenger seat.” Liar, liar pants on fire~!

Damian’s eyes narrow and scratches the skin under his nail. ‘huh,’ you think, absentmindedly. ‘we have similar anxiety ticks.’

With that Dick drives away, trying to build up a conversation. But truly, you couldn’t give a shit. You’re texting with Duke, you have chemistry the first hour, and you want to make sure that he knows that you don’t blame him for letting Bruce adopt him and such. That you just hope that he would keep your back and stay close to you when he joins the family.

Truly, aren’t you embarrassed by this? How insecure can you be?

‘Ofc, I won’t! I swear I’ll explain everything once B signs the papers. Thank you for not being mad :)’ The text makes you smile, once Duke swears something, he keeps that promise. He’s more trustworthy than your mother, she always had her fair share of secrets.

‘I could never be mad at my favourite brother, and you didn’t out me so that makes me not being mad a lot easier /hj’ you sent back before closing your phone, closing your eyes in as you feel stress leaving your body. You’re excited to see him again, you can’t wait to tell your friends about Duke joining your family. It would make your time left there a lot more bearable.

The thought of not being alone withyour ‘family’ anymore made your frown disappear. But it returned the moment you got closer to school. “Drop me off here,” you say, ignoring how Damian’s hand itches. Clearly wanting to grab your uniform jacket. “my friends are waiting for me.”

Dick nods, knowing he shouldn’t push you. You’ll just shut down even more, and it would become even more difficult to re-connect connect with you. He could feel bile rise in his throat the longer he thought about what he has done, about the behaviour he has been complicate in. Oh, but how can he make you see that it was all for the best? How can he make himself see that it was all for the best?

He can’t, he should be on his knees begging for your forgiveness, but he knew that it wouldn’t be enough. He just doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know where he went wrong.

“That was a disaster,” Damian says when he can see you running up to your friends. Dick sighs, but he agrees. Damian knows it, he can see the disappointment on his older brother’s face, it makes him angry at you. But at the same time, why was he angry at you for their behaviour? Why did he give up your love for Jason when he was clearly in the wrong? Is it because of his time in the league, or is there still hatred in his body for you just simply existing?

Oh, what can the bat-family do when all they’ve done is estrange themselves from you? Can they redeem themselves, or will Duke take their place? Will your friends take their place besides your side?

With Duke you would still be apart of their family, but if you were to estrange yourself further from them, go no-contact and acknowledge your friends as your family and only allow Duke in your life they would have no excuse to try and make you understand their side. To try and get you to forgive them.

Because if they right their wrongs, you’ll have to love them. Right?

NEXT PART well, I am using this chapter as a distraction, my grandpa is getting better already tho! And I'm allowed to visit soon, so he's out of any danger zones, if you have any feedback do tell me. I have too many ideas of how to transition to the full yandere part and my brain needs to slow down fr.

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[moonlightdreamzz]

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN YOURS, AND HIS

chapter one — what we don’t talk about ☆ chapter two — half-truths and jungle juice ☆ chapter three — fuck! ☆ chapter four — the tower

chapter summary. a hoodie. a highway. a surprise you never saw coming. everything about today feels like a memory you've been waiting to live—until familiar faces show up.

pairing. jungwon x reader x sunghoon.

genre. college!au, angst, fluff, slow burn, smut.

themes. love triangle, messy relationships and decisions, love or lust?

authors note. sorry for the wait my babies...hope it was worth it. please give me full fledged reviews in the comments. it helps me a lot. shit is about to get crazyyyyy.

you wake up with your heart already racing.

your mouth is dry. your eyes burn. your whole body feels too warm, like your skin hasn’t caught up with the air yet. and for a second—for a split, beautiful second—you don’t remember anything.

just light filtering through the curtain. a blanket draped over your thigh. the faint smell of weed, sweat, and everything else that happened to you last night.

but then it comes back.

not all at once. not like a slap. more like a slow pour—warm at first. then scalding.

his hands.

his mouth.

his voice—“you feel everything, don’t you?”

sunghoon.

you squeeze your eyes shut. God. what did you do? you weren’t blacked out. you weren’t reckless. you were just drunk. and soft. and tired of being the girl who waits around for something that might not even be real.

that’s the part that makes your chest hurt the most. because the truth is—you didn’t think about jungwon at all last night. not once. not when sunghoon kissed you. not when he touched you like you were already his. not even when he asked if you were sure.

and that’s what’s eating you alive now.

you sit up, slow. your dress is bunched around your waist, your lashes halfway off, your head pounding in that slow, angry rhythm that always shows up the morning after.

your throat is dry. your hands are shaking.

you don’t know what to feel first—guilt? or shame? or confusion? or this strange, stupid ache in your chest that sounds like: but does he even want you?

jungwon.

his name hits you like something heavy.

like a weight you forgot you were carrying. like a person you loved in secret for so long, you forgot you were allowed to say it out loud.

you remember the almost-kisses. the nights you laid in his bed waiting for him to make the first move. the way his arms would wrap around you like a question.

the way he’d stop every time things got too close. too warm. too real.

and the way you told yourself that’s enough.

you told yourself his silence was softness. his distance was care.

but it wasn’t just that.

it was the way he always moved the charger to your side of the bed. the way he made sure the room was cold because you liked the blanket heavy.

the way he rubbed your back when you were sick. the way he remembered the way you liked your eggs. the way he’d watch your face instead of the screen when you were laughing at something dumb.

the way he held you like it meant something—even if he never said what.

and that’s what made it worse.

because sunghoon kissed you without fear. but jungwon holds you like he already has you.

but last night… sunghoon didn’t hesitate.

he didn’t second-guess the way your hand found his neck. he didn’t pull away when you leaned in. he didn’t stop to make space between your knees and his hips and your breath and his mouth and your body and his name.

he didn’t stop.

and maybe that’s why you let it happen.

because you were tired. because it felt good. because for once, someone didn’t make you beg for the thing you didn’t know how to ask for.

but now you’re here. alone. sober. skin buzzing like your nerves haven’t caught up yet.

you drag your hands over your face.

do i even owe him anything?

you think it, then hate yourself for thinking it.

you want to cry. or throw up. or crawl under the covers and pretend the last twelve hours didn’t happen.

because you feel like you cheated. like you broke something that wasn’t even real.

but it was. it was.

it’s not just friendship. not with jungwon. not with the way you touched. not with the way you slept wrapped in each other’s limbs like the world outside didn’t exist. not with the way your lips had almost met—how his breath had hit your cheek and his hand had tightened just once on your thigh before he’d backed away like he was scared of his own pulse.

and he never said why.

your legs move before your brain does. out the door. down the hall. through the faded music and soft snoring and tangled blankets on the living room floor.

the clock says 1:03 p.m. most people are still asleep. some aren’t. you don’t care.

you knock.

soft. hesitant.

no answer.

you open the door anyway.

the curtains are drawn. the light hits the wall in that soft, familiar way. and jungwon’s still in bed. fully dressed. half-curled around a pillow that doesn’t belong to him.

his eyes are closed. but his face is tight. his jaw clenched. his brow creased like whatever dream he’s in—it’s not good. you step inside. quiet. like always.

he doesn’t know what you did.

you tell yourself that.

he doesn’t know.

he’s just tired. he’s just sleeping in. he’s just—

his eyes open.

you freeze, and everything goes still. you don’t know what you’re expecting—maybe for him to sit up. maybe for him to ask you what the hell you’re doing.

but he doesn’t. he just looks at you. quiet. still. like he’s taking inventory of every inch of you and trying not to let it show.

your throat tightens. you don’t speak. you just walk over. slow. unsure.

the room is quiet except for the sound of the ceiling fan and the creak of the mattress as you sit on the edge of the bed. your legs are cold. your skin’s still sticky from the night before. you haven’t even showered. you just wanted… this. something soft. something familiar.

you don’t crawl under the blanket. not this time. you just lay down. next to him. he doesn’t say anything for a long time. you lay there. on top of the covers. not touching. barely breathing.

and then—

“you didn’t come back last night.”

his voice is soft. unreadable.

you stare at the ceiling. “i know.”

another pause.

he shifts slightly. his tone doesn’t change.

“did you sleep in your room?”

you blink. your heart stutters.

“i…” you clear your throat. “i was drunk. i didn’t really sleep.”

he hums. not a laugh. not a reaction. just… something.

you risk a glance. his eyes are still fixed on the ceiling, but you can tell—he’s thinking. hard.

“didn’t even say goodnight,” he murmurs.

you look away again. your chest twists.

“you noticed?”

his jaw ticks. “i notice everything.”

the silence hangs.

and then—he glances at you. finally.

“was it fun?”

your breath catches. you don’t answer. he doesn’t push. just turns back toward the ceiling, like it’s easier to look at than you.

you open your mouth. close it.

your throat is burning. your stomach is flipping inside out.

you don’t want to say it.

you can’t say it.

so you pick the only thing that feels safer than the truth.

“nothing happened,” you say.

the words taste like blood in your mouth.

jungwon doesn’t move.

for a second—for one stupid, fragile second—you think maybe he believes you.

but then he blinks slow, like he’s swallowing something sharp.

“nothing?” he says, voice low.

you shake your head. your palms are sweating. you want to cry.

“we didn’t…” you clear your throat. “i didn’t sleep with him.”

he turns his head. looks at you. really looks. and somehow that hurts worse than if he’d called you a liar to your face.

you can’t tell if he believes you. maybe he just wants to. maybe he needs to. you should stop there. you should shut up.

but the guilt is eating you alive. the need to explain yourself—to justify something that doesn’t have an excuse—rises up hot in your chest.

so you say it.

you break your own heart before he can.

“but i don’t know what we’re doing anymore, jungwon,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i don’t know what i’m waiting for.”

his whole body goes still.

the words hang there, heavy and choking, like smoke in the room.

you press your palms into the mattress. dig your nails into the blanket. you’re shaking and you don’t even realize it.

“i—” you try again, but your voice wobbles. “i’m tired.”

you meet his eyes.

“i’m tired of being the only one who’s sure.”

and there it is.

the crack that splits everything open.

you wish he’d say something. fight for you. deny it. pull you back. but he just looks at you. jaw tight. eyes glassy.

and says nothing.

and somehow, that says everything.

he just looks at you—really looks at you—and it’s like everything he’s been trying to bury is clawing its way out at once.

his mouth moves before his brain can stop it.

“i waited for you last night.”

your heart stutters. your throat goes tight.

he leans back against the headboard, palms flat against the sheets, like he needs something solid to hold onto. his voice cracks—just a little—as he keeps going.

“i stayed up all night,” he says, like he’s confessing a sin. “i didn’t even move. i just… sat here. waiting. waiting for the knock. waiting for you to do what you always do.”

you feel yourself sinking into the mattress, smaller and smaller with every word.

“i kept telling myself you were just drunk. that you’d show up eventually.”

he laughs—sharp and hollow and nothing like him. “but you didn’t.”

you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

he drags a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tight you’re scared it might break.

“and then,” he says, voice dropping low, “i heard you.”

your stomach flips.

“giggling in the hallway. laughing with him like—like it was easy. like it was nothing.”

he blinks hard, like he’s trying to chase the image away.

“i heard you. and i realized…”

he swallows.

“i realized it was my fault.”

you shake your head, tears burning your eyes, but he doesn’t let you interrupt.

“i should’ve told you a long time ago,” he says, his voice breaking for real now. “i should’ve told you when you first started crawling into my bed. when you first started wearing my hoodies and looking at me like i hung the damn stars.”

he lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts.

“i thought i was protecting you. i thought if i didn’t say it, i couldn’t ruin it. that i couldn’t ruin us.”

his hands ball into fists in the blankets.

“but all i did was make you think you were unwanted. and you’re not. you never were.”

your vision is blurry. your chest hurts. everything in you is pulling toward him and breaking at the same time.

he looks at you then—really looks—and it’s all there.

the wreckage. the regret. the love.

“i’m in love with you,” he says, like it’s the only thing that matters anymore. “i’ve been in love with you.”

he breathes out, shoulders shaking.

“and it shouldn’t have taken another guy showing up and not hesitating to make me say it.”

the room is so quiet you can hear both your hearts beating.

you’re crying for real now. silent. broken open.

he reaches for you—slow, scared—like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he touches you wrong.

and you let him.

you fall into his arms like it’s the only place you’re supposed to be. you curl into him, clutch his hoodie, bury your face in his chest. and he holds you like he’s scared to let go.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair. “i’m so sorry.”

you shake your head. you don’t even know what you’re saying no to—his apology, his pain, the fact that you didn’t wait long enough, the fact that he waited too long.

you just know you don’t want to lose him.

not yet.

not ever.

after a while, when the tears slow and your breathing evens out, he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“can i take you out today?” he murmurs. “just us. no parties. no noise. just… you and me.”

you nod against his chest.

you don’t trust yourself to say anything.

you don’t need to.

the car ride is quiet at first.

not awkward quiet. just... heavy. like the air hasn't caught up with what happened yet.

you fiddle with the zipper of your hoodie, thumb tracing the teeth back and forth. jungwon taps the steering wheel with two fingers, staring straight ahead like the road might disappear if he blinks too slow.

outside, the world is too bright. too loud. everything feels a little sharp.

you pull your sleeves over your hands. press your forehead against the window for a second, trying to cool down the inside of your head.

"you cold?" jungwon asks, voice soft but immediate.

you shake your head.

he nods like he believes you, but you know he doesn't.

you sneak a glance at him.

he's wearing the hoodie you like—the one that's too big on him, the one you always end up stealing halfway through movie nights. his hair’s messy from the hood. there's a small scar under his jaw you’ve never noticed before. you stare at it too long.

"i was gonna take you to that café you liked last semester," he says, voice careful. "the one with the swings instead of chairs."

you blink.

you forgot he remembered that.

you forgot how much he always remembers.

"but it closed down," he says, glancing at you quick, then back at the road. "so… plan B."

you hum, low in your throat. noncommittal.

he presses a little harder on the gas.

"we'll figure it out," he says. "i just wanted to get you out of the house."

you swallow thickly.

"thank you," you say, voice small.

he glances at you again.

and for the first time since you got in the car, he smiles.

it's not a full one. it's not the one that lights up his whole face and makes his eyes scrunch and his dimples cut deep.

but it's real.

and it does something awful and beautiful to your chest.

he switches the music on low.

something soft, something slow. you don't know the song, but it sounds like it was made for moments like this — moments too fragile for silence, too heavy for words.

you close your eyes for a second.

breathe.

pretend you’re just two kids in a car again.

pretend the world hasn’t shifted underneath you.

pretend last night never happened.

you glance out the window again. the highway starts to curve and narrow. you see the blue-and-yellow billboard before anything else.

your heart stutters.

no way.

you sit up straighter, eyes narrowing as more signs come into view—familiar landmarks, road names, the snack stand you once swore had the best fries in the world.

your stomach flips.

he doesn’t say anything. just smirks.

you whip your head toward him. “are we going to dreamwheel?”

he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just plan the one date you always dreamed about but never got to take him on.

“i mean,” he says, flicking the turn signal, “you’ve only been begging me to come since sophomore year.”

“i didn’t beg.”

“you pouted.”

“i expressed interest.”

“repeatedly.”

you’re already grinning. you can’t help it.

the closer you get, the more it hits you. the skyline. the blazing red rollercoaster loop in the distance. the corny welcome sign.

you went with jake once, a long time ago. but jungwon had the flu and missed it. you talked about it ever since. every time you passed the highway exit. every time someone mentioned cotton candy or arcade games or churros shaped like hearts.

the gate attendant leans out and says, “$30 for parking.”

you automatically reach for your phone. “okay, i’ll send you fifteen—”

“don’t you dare.”

you freeze.

he glances over. “put the phone down.”

“wha—jungwon, it’s thirty dollars.”

“i know.”

“i’m not a broke b—”

“i know that too.”

you try not to smile. “you’re gonna make me get soft.”

he just raises a brow. “you already are.”

he parks. before you can open the door, his voice cuts through the silence.

“don’t touch that.”

you blink.

he’s already out of the car, walking around, and opening the passenger side like it’s second nature. you slide out, stunned.

“what is going on with you today?” you ask, squinting up at him.

he shrugs, locking the car. and then he does it—reaches for your hand. no hesitation. just laces your fingers with his like he’s been doing it every day of his life.

and you let him. because what else are you supposed to do?

this is all you’ve ever wanted.

“this place looks even cheesier than i remember you describing,” he says, walking beside you past the front gates.

you laugh. “that’s the point. it’s a tacky paradise.”

“you love tacky paradises.”

“don’t judge me. you’re literally smiling.”

“i’m smiling because you’re smiling.”

you glance over.

he’s not looking at the park. he’s looking at you. and your chest tightens in that way you hate—the way that makes you feel like you don’t deserve this.

because last night, you didn’t come home. and he waited anyway.

you swallow hard.

but then he’s dragging you toward the first ride. it’s nothing huge—just the spinning teacups. dumb. simple. loud.

you let yourself enjoy it.

the screams. the music. the sound of jungwon laughing across from you as you spin the wheel too hard and almost fall sideways.

you’re a mess. dizzy. smiling too wide. out of breath. you don’t even realize you’re holding his hand again until you’re halfway across the park.

lunch is a paper tray of tteokbokki and fries. he wipes sauce from your cheek with a napkin like it’s nothing.

you say, “where has this version of you been?”

he pauses mid-chew.

then swallows, looking away for a second before he says, “hiding. i guess.”

you don’t press. you don’t have to.

the next ride is a water coaster. you get soaked. he gives you his hoodie to wear over your wet shirt and doesn’t say anything when your fingers brush his stomach while taking it off him.

you pretend not to notice. he lets you.

by the time you get near the ferris wheel, you’re buzzing from sugar and secondhand affection.

the sun is starting to dip, casting orange across everything—like the whole park is stuck in golden hour. you almost forget how heavy your chest has felt all day. almost.

jungwon’s hoodie still hangs off your shoulders. your hair is damp from the water ride. your fingers are sticky from churros and powdered sugar and holding his hand like you’ve been doing it forever.

the line curves around the corner. the wheel creaks above you, slowly spinning, each cart dipping into the sky.

you’re about to lean into him again when—

“yo, what the f—?”

you whip around.

jake.

standing three feet away. sunglasses pushed into his curls. holding a jumbo soda. flanked by two girls.

and sunghoon.

sunghoon is behind him. laughing at something one of the girls said. a hand on the railing. his other one swinging casually at his side like it’s not the same hand that was gripping your waist twelve hours ago.

your blood runs cold.

jake blinks. “what the hell are y’all doing here?”

jungwon’s body goes still next to you. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

jake laughs, like the moment isn’t loaded. “i thought y’all were on house arrest after last night. didn’t even know you were up yet.”

then he glances between you and jungwon.

sees the hoodie.

the hand-holding.

“wait.” his voice drops a little. “are y’all...?”

sunghoon turns at that. looks up.

and everything goes quiet.

your eyes meet. his mouth parts just slightly. he wasn’t expecting to see you.

not like this.

not wearing jungwon’s clothes. not smiling like the world isn’t still spinning from last night.

the girl next to him tugs on his arm, confused. you step back.

jungwon feels it. his jaw flexes, but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

he looks at jake. “we’re on a date.”

simple. straight. like it’s always been true.

jake raises both brows. “damn. my bad.” then he grins, recovering. “guess it’s a double date now, huh?”

you want to disappear. but you don’t. you just smile. barely. and pray your legs don’t give out.

sunghoon doesn’t say anything.

he just looks at you.

like he’s trying to figure out what the hell he missed. what changed. when it changed.

his gaze flickers—jungwon’s hand in yours. the way your body’s angled toward him. the hoodie. the smile you’re pretending isn’t shaking.

you feel it. all of it. the weight of last night crashing into the mess of today.

“you okay?” jungwon asks, low.

you nod. barely.

but then—jake claps his hands.

“bet,” he says. “let’s race to the next ride. loser buys funnel cake.”

before you can react, everyone starts moving.

sunghoon walks past you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t touch you. doesn’t even look too long.

just enough for your breath to catch.

and then he’s gone. walking ahead with the girl still trailing beside him, laughing at something he didn’t even say.

you’re still frozen when jungwon gently pulls you forward, like he’s choosing not to say what he saw in your face.

the group scatters, arguing about which ride is next. jake’s already halfway up the path. the girls trail behind. you and jungwon follow, a little slower.

you’re trying to focus. on the date. on him. on this version of your life where everything feels easy and soft and golden.

but your heart is thudding again. and your mind keeps spinning.

you tell jungwon you’re going to the bathroom. simple. no drama. no lingering looks. just a casual excuse to breathe.

you barely make it two steps past the bathroom when you hear him.

"so you're just gonna ignore me now?"

you stop.

close your eyes.

fuck.

you turn slowly, heart already thudding.

sunghoon’s standing there. arms crossed. jaw tight. no smile. no charm. just tension.

"what are you doing?" you ask, already exhausted.

he shrugs. "same thing you are. pretending."

you roll your eyes. "go back to your little group."

"why?" he tilts his head. "so you can play house with him a little longer?"

your stomach twists.

"don’t do this," you mutter.

"don’t do what? remind you what happened last night?"

you try to push past him, but he steps in front of you.

"don’t act brand new," he says, voice lower now. "you didn’t have this attitude when i had you bent over begging for more."

your breath catches. you stare at him.

"fuck you," you say quietly.

he laughs—cold, sharp, like you didn’t just stab him first.

"already did."

you look away, throat tight.

he leans in, too close. "you’re gonna tell me none of it meant anything?"

you hesitate. only for a second. but it’s enough.

he sees it.

"right," he says. "thought so."

you grit your teeth. "you knew about me and jungwon."

his smirk fades.

"you always knew," you continue. "you just didn’t care. you saw an opening and you took it."

"and you let me."

"i never said i didn’t. but don’t stand here acting like you thought this was something more."

"it wasn’t nothing."

"maybe not," you say, voice flat. "but i’m still choosing him."

his face twitches.

you don’t even hear the footsteps behind you. don’t realize someone’s listening until the hallway drops into silence.

jungwon.

standing there.

frozen.

his face unreadable. but his eyes—his eyes burn straight through you.

you feel your heart seize. he heard everything.

sunghoon scoffs behind you, like this is all too much. "man, whatever. this is a joke."

he turns like he’s about to walk—

"nah."

jungwon’s voice cuts the air like a blade. he steps forward. calm. cold.

"you cool?"

sunghoon spins. "are you?"

you try to step in, but jungwon’s eyes never leave his.

"she told you to back off. she’s here with me. you don’t get to keep pushing."

"she was with me last night," sunghoon snaps. "so what do you wanna do? let me know."

jungwon flinches. just barely.

but it’s enough to make your stomach drop.

"stop it," you say. "both of you—"

"no," jungwon says, eyes still locked. "if you respected her at all, you’d walk away."

"don’t act like you’re some fucking hero," sunghoon growls. “you waited too long. i didn’t. you just watched her walk away.”

jungwon doesn’t blink.

sunghoon tilts his head, eyes burning. “you know what your problem is? you were scared. too pussy to say how you felt. too pussy to make a move. and now a guy like me came around and got your girl.”

you flinch.

jungwon’s fist curls—but he’s still too still. too quiet.

sunghoon shrugs like it’s nothing. like he didn’t just drop a bomb. “don’t be mad at me for seeing her. for acting. for not hesitating.”

he nods at you, just once. and for a moment, it almost feels like a soft truth.

“she’s not a maybe. she’s not some game. and if you really gave a fuck, you wouldn’t have waited until someone else touched her to wake up.”

and that’s when jungwon speaks.

low.

measured.

but deadly.

“i’m a pussy?” he repeats, voice calm in that terrifying kind of way. “nah. you are.”

sunghoon’s brows twitch.

jungwon steps forward. not fast. not angry. just sure.

“because i had a choice,” he says. “i could’ve made her mine months ago. but i didn’t want to fuck this up. not like you just did.”

sunghoon scoffs, but jungwon’s not done.

“you want a medal for not hesitating?” he spits. “for seeing a drunk girl who’s been in love with someone else and still going for it?”

sunghoon opens his mouth, but—

“you fucked her, and the very next day, you showed up with another bitch on your arm.”

your breath catches.

jungwon doesn’t look at you. he doesn’t even flinch.

“don’t talk to me about being a man. if you actually liked her—if you respected her at all—you wouldn’t have touched her like that. you would've waited. you would've meant it. ” jungwon takes a deep breath before shooting his final blow. "and yeah, you two had a good time last night, but when she woke up, who did she want? you, or me?"

sunghoon stares.

jaw tight. eyes burning. but he doesn’t speak.

because there’s nothing to say.

you’re the one who’s shaking now. because every word feels like it landed in your chest.

and still—

you can’t take any of it back.

taglist❤️

@jvngw0nlvr @iamjusttryingtoreadapost @woibeb @xoseraphiina @tunafishyfishylike @onlyticket-home @k1ttyjwon @taehyunsfavmoa @doveblackboat @umanjofantasma

[mandoalorian]

if this is war, i surrender — prologue

Revenge had a price. You just didn’t expect it to feel like this.

Pairing: New Avenger!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Synopsis: You wanted revenge. He became the reason you hesitated. He was the ghost from your past—the one who took everything. But getting close to him meant playing a dangerous game. And somewhere between hating him and pretending not to care, you forgot the one rule you swore you'd follow: don't fall for the enemy.

Word Count: 2,700

Rating/Warnings: 18+ for eventual smut - and there will be a lot of it, mentions and descriptions of abuse (both physical and emotional), enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, death of a family member, Sam/Bucky aren't friends.

Author’s Note: SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS* (and is tagged accordingly) — as promised, a brand new fic series for our beloved New Avenger!Bucky. And it's an Avengers Tower fic! I am so excited for this. If you want to be tagged, let me know.

Masterlist | next chapter

You’d lived your whole life feeling what others couldn’t hide.

Anger that simmered beneath polite smiles. Grief was tucked behind practised charm. Lust, hatred, envy—emotions wrapped in flesh and bone and lies. Most people were predictable once you knew what they’d do before they did it.

It wasn’t magic. Not really.

It was you—something twisted into your blood long ago. You could read them. Sense the weight of a person by the colour of their aura, the heat of their intent. It made the world feel like a game of chess, you were always five moves ahead in.

And still, somehow, you’d lost everything.

No family. No justice.

Just a face burned into your memory—cold, unfeeling, and soaked in your brother’s blood.

The Winter Soldier. 

You’d read all the self-help books and spent years in counselling and therapy. God, you had tried everything to get over it. But you remembered it like it was second nature, so much so that your Void Room felt like a nightmare you’d been used to for the past twenty years. It wasn’t reliving trauma, because you had never left. You were only a small child when it happened. You remember the fear that outlined your brother when he was cornered by the Winter Soldier, and the Soldier’s aura? Nothing. Like he was cut off from the world. Not an ounce of feeling or emotion. 

But how could that be possible?

They said he was reformed, that he was out in the city under a government pardon, trying to live a ‘normal life’ after the Battle of Earth. There were traces of his presence a few years ago, working alongside Captain America to disassemble the Flag Smashers. And since then, a brief stint of being Brooklyn's Congressman.

Seriously, who would vote him into power?

You had been waiting for the world to hand him a spotlight, a new beginning, because that always seemed to happen to men like Bucky Barnes. 

A fresh start. Forgiveness. 

You were okay with waiting because a plan like this had to be made with precision, and precision took time. You couldn’t fight him with fury or fire. 

You’d get close. You’d make him trust you. And when the moment came, you’d watch his world fall. 

But for now, you worked at McCready’s bar in Lower Manhattan.

The neon lights outside the bar flickered in a lazy rhythm as you wiped down the counter for the umpteenth time, the stale smell of spilt whiskey and cheap beer lingering in the air. It was a Tuesday, but the bar was packed — a sea of half-drunk faces and the kind of conversations that never mattered. You hadn’t expected much from the job, but at least it kept you afloat. Barely.

The tips were inconsistent, the hours long, but it was all you had. Living in New York City wasn’t kind to anyone who wasn’t swimming in money, and you weren’t even close. You’d gotten used to the way the city hummed around you, indifferent to your struggles, just another face in the crowd. At least you weren’t completely alone. Shane was always there, hovering in the background like a constant reminder of the life you were stuck in.

He was your roommate, sure — but the lines had blurred long ago. It was more than that. You couldn’t leave him, not because you loved him, but because you had nowhere else to go. Shane had a way of turning everything he touched into a mess, and you were caught in the fallout. He was just… volatile, always drunk, always angry. His mood swung like a pendulum — when it was good, it was fine, but when it was bad, it was a storm. And you were always the one caught in its path.

Tonight was no different. His eyes were bloodshot, his speech slurred, but you knew better than to challenge him. You knew the look, the one that came just before things went south. You had learned how to move quietly, how to keep your head down when he raged. It wasn’t the first time he’d lashed out — and you hated yourself for staying, for letting him control so much of your life. But you couldn’t leave. The apartment was cheap, and it was better than being homeless. The city wasn’t kind to women on their own, and you weren’t naïve enough to think you’d be different.

So you endured.

The clink of glass broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to the bar. Another customer. Another drink to serve. You plastered on your best smile and handed over the next round, trying to ignore the ache in your chest, the one that never went away. The ache that was there every time you realised you were stuck in a life that wasn’t yours to begin with, with a person who only made it harder to breathe.

But then, he crashed against the bar when your back was turned.

You felt it before you saw him.

A tight heat in the centre of your chest, like a warning flare under your skin. The aura rolled in a moment later—dark, pulsing red, bloated with alcohol and laced with something sharp. Bitterness. Rage. Shame. It wrapped around you like smoke, familiar and suffocating.

Shane.

You didn’t even need to look up. The aura was unmistakable. Predictable. He always came into your orbit like this—loud, drunk, and looking to pick a fight he could pretend wasn’t his fault.

You braced your palms against the sticky bar top and sighed.

“Didn’t think you worked Thursdays,” his voice slurred from your left. He leaned heavily against the counter, already swaying.

“I switched shifts.” You kept your eyes on the glass you were drying, steady and detached.

Shane scoffed. “Of course you did. Probably duckin’ me.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in closer, breath hot and sharp with whiskey. “You can’t keep avoiding me, babe. We’ve got things to talk about.”

You turned to face him. “We broke up.”

His jaw twitched. You saw the spike in his aura before he even moved. The humiliation—how quickly it curdled into fury.

He slammed his palm down on the bar. “You can’t just cut me off like that! I still have your stuff!”

“And I’ll pick it up tomorrow when I get off work.” You spoke calmly, but your fingers curled against the wood.

“You act like I was the problem. Like you’re so perfect.”

You felt his emotions boiling up, the weight of everything unsaid pressing into your ribs. Your powers made it impossible not to feel it all—the guilt, the desperation, the jealousy eating holes in his brain.

He reached toward the shelf behind you, fingers clumsy and quick.

You saw it in a flash—his intention. The movement. The bottle. The shatter.

“Shane,” you warned, voice low.

But he grabbed the glass anyway.

And when you didn’t flinch—didn’t react—he hurled it at the far wall. The sound of shattering exploded through the bar like a gunshot.

Conversations cut off. Heads turned. The bartender at the other end shouted something you didn’t catch, but you didn’t move. You stared him down, heart steady even as your powers screamed with the heat of his spiraling aura.

“Get. Out.” Your voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to.

Shane scoffed again, as if that might somehow make him look less pathetic. He backed up with slow, jerking steps, flipping off the room as he staggered toward the door.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he muttered, just before the door slammed shut behind him.

The silence he left behind was louder than the glass.

You let out a breath, realising you’d been holding it. Then you grabbed the broom from behind the bar and swept the shards into a dustpan, the sharp scrape of glass grounding you.

Your skin still tingled from the contact with his rage. You hated that you felt it all—the fear before it turned violent, the hurt beneath the anger. You hated that your powers made it impossible to just forget someone.

But maybe that was the curse of being who you were. You always saw what was coming. You just couldn’t always stop it.

As the last pieces of glass clinked into the bin, you finally straightened. The bar had settled again. Conversations resumed. The music picked back up.

“Rough night?”

The voice came from the far end of the bar—smooth, level, edged with something you couldn’t quite name.

You looked up. Black hoodie. Cap pulled low. Sunglasses indoors. He didn’t look dangerous, but he looked like someone who could be.

“Getting there,” you replied.

He offered a small nod. “Water, please.”

You poured it and slid it over. “You don’t seem like a regular.”

He chuckled. “I’m not.”

There was a pause. You watched him closely, brushing your senses over his aura. It was… quiet. Centred. Strong in a way that didn’t shout. But frayed at the edges. Worn. Heavy. You sensed something simmering—like a soldier forced to sit still while a war started without him.

“You handled yourself well earlier,” he said, not looking up.

You blinked. “You saw that?”

“I saw enough. Most people don’t know when to walk away. You did.”

You tilted your head, wary. “You following me?”

“No. Just watching.”

That didn’t make it less strange. But your instincts didn’t scream danger—only mystery.

You turned toward the corner TV to anchor yourself—something normal. Background noise. Distraction.

Instead, your stomach dropped.

You hadn’t meant to keep watching.

The TV had always just been background noise—old games, muted news reels, the occasional infomercial to fill the gaps between orders. But tonight, the screen was impossible to ignore.

A navy-blue backdrop. Stark white letters:

LIVE: O.X.E. GLOBAL INITIATIVE PRESS CONFERENCE

At the podium stood Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, sharp in her suit, that perpetual half-smile like she knew something the rest of the world didn’t.

“Today,” she said, “marks the beginning of a new era.”

You barely noticed the sound of glass clinking behind the bar as someone restocked. The world had narrowed to that screen.

Val continued, cool and poised. “A world in chaos needs structure. Direction. Accountability. O.X.E. was founded for that purpose—and now, I’m proud to announce its greatest achievement yet.”

The camera panned as she lifted a hand, gesturing to the five figures standing just out of frame.

Your heart skipped once—no reason. Just instinct.

“Earth’s new protectors. A team not built on nostalgia or outdated legacies. But on precision, strength, and experience.”

The screen cut to a slow pan across the group.

First: Yelena Belova.

You recognised her instantly—shoulders squared in sleek black tactical gear, expression unreadable. There was something fiercely restrained in her stance. A storm with a chokehold on itself.

Next: Ava Starr.

Ghost. Gloved hands in her pockets, hood half-drawn. She looked like she wanted to vanish right through the floor. Her energy vibrated through the screen—quiet, unstable, barely contained.

Then: John Walker.

U.S. Agent. Chin high, arms crossed like he was daring someone to challenge his spot. The smugness rolled off him like oil.

After that: Alexei Shostakov.

The Red Guardian. Smirking like he thought this was a stage play. You remembered his face from news clippings—over-the-top patriotism paired with brute force.

And then—just as the camera reached the final spot—

You felt it before you saw him.

Cold steel wrapped in guilt. A storm buried under a thousand locked doors. It hit you like a tide and settled in your bones.

Bucky Barnes.

He stepped forward into frame, silent. Dark clothes. Gloves on. That familiar stare—the one you’d only ever seen in flashes, or in the brief security footage you weren’t supposed to find. The one from fourteen years ago.

Your grip on the counter went white-knuckle.

His name appeared below him in bold, unmistakable letters, sub-titled with the words Team Leader. 

The world faded around you. The bar. The people. The music. It all disappeared.

There he was. Front and centre. Standing tall like the past never happened. Like the blood on his hands had been scrubbed clean.

Leader. Hero. Forgiven.

And just like that, the plan began to form.

Because if he was back—if he was leading this new world—then this was your chance.

You’d get close. You’d get answers.

And you’d finally make him pay.

“Mind if I use your phone?” The voice cut your thoughts off with a sharp snap.

You hesitated. “Landline’s under the register. Doesn’t do long-distance.” 

“That’s fine. He’s local.”

The man in the cap dialled quickly, voice low as he turned away from the bar. You stayed close, listening despite yourself.

“Yeah. It’s me.” Cap said. That was the nickname you’d given him. It felt fitting. You read his aura, and found it laced with anger. But it wasn’t like Shane’s anger. It wasn’t volatile or red, but instead, it was muted and hurt. Betrayal.

A pause.

“No, I saw it. They didn’t clear it. Val went public without warning.”

Another pause.

“No, he didn’t tell me. Look, Torres. He knew— he knew about my plan to restart the Av—”

His jaw clenched before stopping mid-sentence, aware of his audience.

“Just be ready. If this gets worse, we’ll need to act fast. I’ll call him tonight.”

He hung up. Didn’t say goodbye.

You crossed your arms. “You talk like someone important.”

He gave you a look, unreadable behind the glasses. “Depends who’s asking.”

You lifted your chin, refusing to back down. “I’ve had enough people lie to my face tonight.”

For a beat, he said nothing.

Then, with the tiniest smirk, he pulled off the sunglasses and tucked them into his hoodie.

“I’m Sam.”

Your breath hitched.

Captain fucking America.

────✪────

Bucky’s phone lit up the second the press conference ended.

Sam Wilson.

He stared at the name a moment longer than he needed to, then answered with a clipped, “Yeah.”

Sam didn’t waste time.

“You really let them use the name.”

Bucky leaned back against the edge of the hotel desk, jaw tight. “It’s just a name.”

“No, it’s not,” Sam snapped. “It’s our name. You think you get to let some corrupt agency parade it around like a branding tool? Like Steve’s legacy didn’t mean a damn thing?”

Bucky said nothing.

“You stood up there like it was nothing,” Sam continued. “With Walker. With Val. You think this is what Steve would’ve wanted? You think he’d look at that team and—”

“Don’t,” Bucky cut in, voice suddenly cold. “Don’t bring him into this.”

Sam didn’t flinch. “Someone has to.” 

Bucky exhaled, short and sharp. “I didn’t choose the name. I didn’t write the headline. I chose a mission. That’s it.”

“Yeah?” Sam snapped. “Well, congratulations. You just handed the Avengers legacy over to a bunch of government puppets.”

Something burned behind Bucky’s eyes. He clenched his fist.

Bucky’s silence was answer enough, and Sam could feel his partner’s stoic glare through the line.

Sam exhaled, like he was holding back something worse. “You think this is justice? You think you’re fixing something?”

“I’m doing what I can with the mess that’s left,” Bucky said through gritted teeth. “Same as you.”

“No, I’m trying to honour what came before. You—? You’re just trying to outrun it.”

That struck a nerve.

Bucky stood straighter, voice low and clipped. “You think I give a damn about your approval? I don’t need your permission to do something that matters.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam snapped. “Since when do you care about legacy?”

The air between them tightened, stretching thin with unspoken names and unforgiven history.

“You’ve got no idea what I care about,” Bucky said coldly.

Sam paused, just long enough for it to sting. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Click.

Bucky hung up first.

The fourteen months that followed weren’t peaceful.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

Fic taglist: @ruexj283

[scarluna]

KNOCKOUT (001)

⸺ ݂ ํ Synopsis : ꣒

Y/N is a depressed, closed off, anxious and insecure plus-sized girl. She does not believe she deserves love nor anything good in her life. However by destiny, she meets Jungkook. A fighter, a biker and a guy that changes the way she sees the world.

⸺ ݂ ํ Characters : ꣒ Jeon Jungkook x Y/N

⸺ ݂ ํ Chapters: 1/?

⸺ ݂ ํ Trigger warnings : ꣒ mature language, mental health problems, depression, su!c!d1l thoughts, fatph0bia, illegal substances, smoking, anxiety, body dysmorphia, maladaptive daydreaming, making out, traumas

⸺ ݂ ํ Other warnings : ꣒ grammatical errors.

⸺ ݂ ํ Author's Note: ꣒ So, again, I am back at it. Completely fictional.

I don’t look in mirrors if I can help it.

I glance—never stare. I avoid reflections like they’re landmines, each one threatening to detonate everything I’ve worked so hard to bury.

I pull my hoodie tighter around myself as I walk down the hall of my apartment building. Even though it’s warm out, I keep it on. I always keep it on. Oversized, black, long-sleeved—my version of armor. Fabric that hides the parts of me I hate the most.

Which is basically all of me.

My thighs touch when I walk. My arms jiggle when I reach for things. My stomach… don’t get me started. Every inch of me feels wrong, and no matter how many times people say things like "beauty comes in all sizes," I can still hear the laughter from the girls in middle school locker rooms. I can still feel their eyes on me. Judging. Mocking.

I learned early that boys only look at girls like me when it's a joke—or a dare. So, I don’t let them. I keep my head down, earphones in, and move like I’m invisible.

It’s safer that way.

I fake normal better than most. Smiles when I’m supposed to. Laughs at the right moments. I even let my mom believe I’m doing "so much better" lately.

She wouldn’t notice either way. She’s too busy.

She works fifteen hours a day and answers my texts with thumbs up emojis or, if I’m lucky, a "K." I get it. She’s trying to keep us afloat. But sometimes I think she works that much so she doesn’t have to come home.

Can’t say I blame her.

My dad is... well, he’s usually passed out almost every time I visit them. His breath smells like cheap whiskey and bad decisions. He tells me I’m beautiful sometimes—slurred, half-sincere—but only after his third drink. And the next morning he doesn’t remember saying anything at all.

I hate that I still want him to mean it.

No one knows how I eat in secret. How I wait until everyone’s asleep to tiptoe into the kitchen and stuff myself until I can barely breathe. Chips, cereal, cookies—whatever I can find. It’s not even about the food. It’s about silence. About filling something inside me that always feels empty.

Then comes the shame. The guilt. The promise to do better tomorrow.

Tomorrow never comes.

People think being fat is a choice. Like I woke up and decided to hate myself. Like I don’t already know what every calorie means. Like I haven’t stood in dressing rooms, numb and silent, while my mom said, “You just need a little more discipline.”

If she only knew.

But she doesn’t. No one does.

And that’s how I survive. By hiding the real me. By locking away every ugly thought and pretending I'm okay. It’s exhausting—but I’m good at it.

I finally curled up In my bed, wrapped in the same blanket I’ve had since high school—frayed at the edges, soft from too many washes. The TV was on, playing some show I’ve already watched three times over. Something comforting. Familiar. The kind where characters have perfect lives, perfect friends, and perfect bodies. The kind where no one ever breaks down crying because they can’t zip up their jeans.

I mindlessly shove popcorn into my mouth, even though I’m not really hungry. I just need something to do with my hands. That, and I don’t know how to exist in silence.

Outside, life moves. People laugh, date, go out for coffee and brunch and spin class. I watch it all through the filtered lens of social media, like I’m peeking through a window at a party I wasn’t invited to.

But the truth is... I don’t want to go.

Not really.

Being outside is exhausting. People are exhausting. The stares, the judgment—even the polite ones, the forced smiles, the awkward glances that say "I see you, but I don’t want to."

I’d rather sit here, in the stillness of my own space, where no one expects anything from me. Where I don’t have to suck in my stomach or pull down my shirt every time I stand up.

Unless she visits.

My best friend, Vicky. The only one who’s ever stuck around long enough to see all my ugly truths and not run for the hills. Unfortunately she lives two hours away. We talk every day tho—text, memes, random voice notes that trail off mid-sentence because we always know what the other means. But when she visits? That’s when I pretend, just for a night, that I’m someone else.

Someone better.

We’ll pour a glass of cheap wine and sit on the floor like we’re still seventeen. She’ll blast music we used to love and I’ll let my hair down, throw on a slightly-too-tight dress I usually hide in the back of my closet, and for a few hours, I’ll play the part.

I’ll laugh too loud. I’ll talk too fast. I’ll flirt with the mirror and call myself a bad bitch even though I don’t believe a word of it.

It’s not real, but it’s fun to pretend.

Sometimes we go out—to a bar or a lounge or some half-dead pub that plays throwbacks—and I’ll catch a man looking my way. And for a second, I’ll feel like maybe... maybe this time is different.

But it never is.

They smile. Then hesitate. Then give me mixed signals that make my head spin. One moment, it’s flirty texts and compliments. The next, it’s radio silence or a sudden ghosting like I imagined the whole thing.

I used to blame myself. Still do, if I’m being honest.

Maybe I’m not pretty enough. Maybe they didn’t like how my body looked up close. Maybe they thought I was fun—until they realized I came with baggage.

They say I’m “hard to read,” but they never bother to learn the language.

Now, I don’t expect anything. I don’t chase, and I definitely don’t hope. Hope is a cruel thing when you’ve been fed disappointment your whole life.

So I stay here.

Buried in the comfort of my bed. With my blanket and my snacks and my fake little world where I don’t have to feel like a mistake.

And honestly?

Sometimes, it feels like the only place I truly belong.

Some nights, the silence feels like it’s screaming.

Tonight is one of those nights.

The TV is still on, playing something meaningless. Just noise to drown out the thoughts. But it doesn’t work. It never really does. The thoughts always find their way back in—slipping through the cracks like cold air under a door.

I don’t even know when I started crying. My eyes just feel heavy, and my chest aches like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.

I sit there, knees hugged to my chest, tears rolling quietly, silently. Because that’s the only way I know how to break down—alone. Always alone.

I wish I could explain this feeling. This tightness. This numb, dull throb of sadness that doesn’t go away. It’s not just about my body, though that’s a part of it. It’s the loneliness. The kind that makes the world feel like it’s moving on without you. Like you’re stuck behind glass, watching everyone else live while you just... exist.

People talk about love like it’s this magical thing. Like it just happens. Eye contact across a room. Sparks. Butterflies. Hands brushing and souls colliding.

I’ve never had that. I don’t even know what it feels like to be touched by someone who wanted to stay. Who wanted me. Not some idea of me. Not some mask I wear to get through the day. The real me.

And God—don’t even get me started on sex.

Everyone acts like it’s supposed to be this beautiful thing. Passionate. Intimate. But for me? It feels terrifying. Not just because of my body—though that fear is always there, a weight pressing down on me—but because letting someone that close means showing them everything I try so hard to hide. The scars. The stretch marks. The parts of me I can’t fix.

The parts of me I’ve learned to keep locked up.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m even capable of being loved. Like maybe I was born with something missing. Or maybe I’m too much. Too broken. Too guarded. Too something.

Would anyone ever actually stay, if they saw all of me?

The depression makes it worse. It lies to me. Tells me I’m unworthy. That I’m hard to love. That I’m destined to always be someone’s maybe, someone’s almost. The girl who’s good for conversation but never good enough to hold.

And the worst part? Some days, I believe it.

I hate how much I crave affection, even though I’m terrified of it. I hate that I want someone to hold me and kiss my forehead and tell me I’m safe, but I wouldn’t know how to accept it if they did. My body would flinch, my mind would panic, and I’d probably ruin everything before it even began.

Because that’s what I do. I ruin things.

And then I cry about it in the dark, wondering what’s wrong with me.

I wrap the blanket tighter around me and bury my face in my arms. My tears come harder now, not quiet anymore. Ugly sobs that make my throat burn. I wish I could scream. I wish I could tear it all out of me—the pain, the shame, the fear.

I just want to be held. Not for how I look. Not for what I offer. But for who I am.

All of me.

Even the messy, haunted parts.

Even the parts I don’t know how to love myself.

But maybe that’s a lot to ask.

Maybe no one’s coming.

Maybe I’m all I’ll ever have.

-

Friday night.

The clock on my screen blinks 6:01 PM, and just like that, my shift ends.

Another day of smiling through gritted teeth, typing out canned responses to strangers who think “customer support” means “emotional punching bag.” My fingers are sore, my eyes ache, and I have exactly zero energy left to pretend to be a functioning adult.

I close my laptop and sigh, rolling my neck until it cracks. My apartment is dim, lit only by the fading orange glow of sunset bleeding through the blinds. I consider changing into pajamas and crawling under a blanket burrito-style. It’s what I usually do on Fridays. My little reward for surviving the week. Thank God I was a home office or else I’d be definitely drained at the office.

Then I hear it.

Knocking.

Sharp, insistent, like the sound of someone who knows you’re home.

I freeze. I’m not expecting anyone.

Another knock.

I drag myself to the door, hoodie still on, hair a mess, socks mismatched—classic me. I open it cautiously, peeking through the crack.

And there she is.

“Surprise, bitch,” Vicky grins, arms wide like she’s just delivered the winning lotto ticket.

Right behind her stands Trevor, tall and unbothered, holding a paper bag that smells suspiciously like garlic bread. He nods at me like we’ve just seen each other yesterday, even though it’s been months.

“What the hell—” I blink. “You guys didn’t tell me you were coming!”

“That’s what makes it a surprise,” Vicky smirks, pushing past me into the apartment like she owns the place. “Also, we know you’d say no if we warned you.”

She’s not wrong.

Trevor chuckles as he walks in behind her. “Hey, Y/N. We brought food. Don’t yell at us.”

I just shake my head, trying not to smile too hard. It’s impossible with these two.

Vicky and Trevor have been together for five years now. They met online—some obscure Reddit thread about mental health turned into DMs, which turned into phone calls, which turned into a weekend meetup that never really ended.

She’s a psychologist, whip-smart with a razor-sharp tongue and a heart of gold. He’s an IT guy, quiet and patient, the kind of man who listens more than he talks and somehow always knows when you need space... or a hug.

They’re that annoying kind of couple that actually works—the kind that finishes each other’s sentences and still giggles at inside jokes no one else gets. It’s weird seeing that kind of emotional intimacy up close. Beautiful, but also kind of brutal.

Because deep down, I want it.

That connection. That safety. That soft, quiet love that doesn’t disappear at the first sign of mess.

And it hurts—just a little—because a part of me still believes I’ll never have it.

“You’re staring again,” Vicky teases from the couch. “Are you mentally writing fanfiction about us?”

I roll my eyes, laughing despite the lump in my throat. “No, I’m just wondering how two socially awkward nerds made it work.”

Trevor winks. “Magic and memes.”

“And therapy,” Vicky adds, tossing a cushion at him. “Lots of therapy.”

We eat. We talk. We laugh—really laugh, the kind that makes your stomach hurt. For a moment, I forget about everything else. My body. My fears. My loneliness. It all fades under the glow of garlic knots and sarcastic banter.

Until Vicky suddenly looks at me with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“We’re going out,” she says.

I blink. “Out where?”

She stands, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “It’s a surprise.”

Trevor groans playfully. “God help us all.”

I hesitate. My instinct is to say no. I’m not dressed for “out.” I’m not mentally prepared. My anxiety starts bubbling up—but Vicky grabs my hand before I can retreat.

“Trust me,” she says, softer now. “You need this.”

I swallow hard, nod slowly, and let her pull me to my feet.

-

An hour later, we’re walking down a narrow alley lit by a single flickering bulb. The sound of bass and shouting grows louder with every step. The building looks like an abandoned warehouse, tagged up and half-broken—but there's a bouncer at the door and people going in like it's nothing.

“What is this?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“You’ll see,” Vicky smirks. “Just… keep an open mind.”

I glance at Trevor. He just shrugs and smiles, which tells me nothing.

We walk in—and the moment we do, the world shifts.

It’s hot. Loud. Electric. The air is thick with sweat, adrenaline, and tension. People crowd around a caged ring in the center of the room, shouting, cheering, drinks sloshing in their hands.

A fight is happening. An actual underground fight.

“What the hell, Vick?” I whisper, stunned.

The air hits me like a punch.

Heat. Sweat. Noise.

A crowd of bodies packed like sardines, all facing the makeshift cage in the center. The shouting is relentless, echoing off concrete walls, drowning out my thoughts. People are laughing, jeering, spilling drinks. Some are on tables. Some are barely dressed. Every part of it screams get out.

Vicky turns back and says over the noise, “Trust me. You need this. It’s good for your mental health.”

I shoot her a look. “You dragged me to a fight club for my mental health?”

She grins, unfazed. “You live in your head too much. This place? It pulls you out. It’s raw. Real. No filters. No fakeness. You just feel everything, whether you want to or not.”

I open my mouth to argue but the words stick. Because as chaotic as this place is, I can already feel the numbness cracking. Not in a good way—more like being ripped out of a too-warm blanket and thrown into a blizzard.

I tug my oversized hoodie tighter around myself, the sleeves swallowing my hands. My skin feels too exposed, like people are looking at me even when they aren’t. I’m not dressed for this. I’m not ready for this.

I did shower before we left, thank God. But even that small self-care win can’t calm the panic twisting in my gut now.

Overcrowded places make my skin crawl. I’ve never liked loud spaces, or too many people talking over each other, or being somewhere I can’t make a quick escape from.

It’s too much.

I scan the room, my eyes flicking from face to face. Most people here are loud, confident, half-drunk or fully fearless. Girls in tight dresses, guys in muscle shirts and tattoos, people laughing like this is a Friday night comedy show and not two men bleeding into the floor.

And then there’s me.

Tucked into the corner. Hiding. Heart racing. Wondering why the hell I agreed to this.

“Vick,” I say, leaning closer to her so she can hear me. “I don’t think I belong here.”

She turns, her face softer now. “You do. Just breathe.”

But how can I?

Every step into this place feels like walking deeper into someone else’s life. Someone who isn’t afraid. Someone who belongs in their skin. Not like me. I shrink without even realizing it—shoulders curling in, body trying to disappear into the folds of my hoodie. My safe zone.

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t want anyone to look at me.

But at the same time… some twisted part of me does.

Just once, I want to be the girl someone notices.

And I hate myself for it.

“Just give it a minute,” Trevor says gently, voice like a low anchor in the storm. “You might surprise yourself.”

But I don’t want to surprise myself. I want to be back home, curled up in silence, not vibrating from the bass of a place that smells like blood and beer.

Still—I don’t leave.

Because as much as I hate this, as much as I want to run, there’s something about this space that feels important. Like I’m on the edge of something.

Even if I don’t know what.

Suddenly, the crowd erupts louder than before—cheers, screams, a few scattered boos. Everyone turns their attention to the ring as a man climbs through the ropes.

A voice booms from the crackling speakers overhead, broken slightly by static but loud enough to cut through everything.

“In this corner, we got the reigning champ of the Southside pits… undefeated in seventeen fights, no tap-outs, no knockouts—only carnage. You know him. You fear him. Put your hands together for THIAAAGOOOOO!”

And that’s when I see him.

Thiago.

He steps fully into the ring—and my heart stalls.

He’s massive.

Tall—at least six foot five—built like a mountain, shoulders so broad they look like they could crush skulls. His skin is littered with scars, some healed into thick ridges, others fresher and angry red. A jagged one runs across his collarbone like a warning sign.

He’s bald, his head gleaming under the overhead lights, and his face—God, his face—it looks carved from stone. Cold, emotionless. A sharp jaw, a crooked nose that’s clearly been broken more than once, and dark eyes full of fury.

He’s not just a fighter. He looks like he’s made for war.

And he’s terrifying.

My stomach flips. My body stiffens. I take a half-step back without thinking.

“Holy fuck” I mutter, clutching my hoodie like it’s a shield. “This is insane. That guy looks like he eats souls for breakfast.”

Vicky doesn’t respond right away. She’s watching the ring with a curious glint in her eye. Trevor’s more stoic, but even he looks a little tense now.

Thiago circles the ring like a predator, chest rising slowly, eyes scanning the crowd like he’s daring someone to challenge him next. He radiates danger—pure, undiluted rage wrapped in muscle.

“He’s one of the best here,” Vicky finally says. “Or the worst, depending on how you look at it.”

“He looks like he could snap someone in half,” I whisper.

“He has,” Trevor says casually. Too casually.

My hands start to sweat.

Why are we here?

Why did Vicky think this was good for me?

My anxiety’s climbing fast. My heart won’t slow down, and my breath is catching in my throat. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere near people like him.

Just being in the same room as that kind of anger—raw, visible, unfiltered—it makes my skin crawl. It reminds me of my dad on a bad night. It reminds me of yelling behind closed doors. Of breaking things that don’t heal. Of fear you can’t explain to anyone.

I can’t tear my eyes away, though. Even as my body begs me to.

Because there’s something about him that feels like a mirror—sharpened, brutal, broken.

And maybe that’s the scariest part.

The referee’s voice cracks through the mic again, pulling the attention of the crowd back toward the entrance ramp. People around me start shifting with excitement—some chanting already, others leaning forward, trying to get a better view.

“And in this corner…” the announcer growls with theatrical flair, “…the one you’ve been waiting for. The wildcard. The Ghost of the East Ring. He’s fast, he’s vicious, and he doesn’t say much—but when he moves, you listen. Give it up for—JUNGKOOK!”

The lights dim just slightly. Smoke—real or fake, I can’t tell—floods in at the entrance. Then he steps out.

And everything slows.

He’s smaller than Thiago, yeah. Not small, just… more compact. But somehow his presence fills the room in a different way. Controlled chaos. Stillness before a storm. His body is lean but powerful—tattooed arms flexing under the flickering warehouse lights as he casually rolls one shoulder, then the other.

A black wet mullet hangs across his forehead and brushes against the nape of his neck, damp with sweat or maybe water poured over him before walking out. His dark eyes flick across the crowd—slow, methodical—like he’s searching for something or someone specific.

When his gaze sweeps past me, I freeze.

He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even notice me. But for a second, I feel… seen.

Then it’s gone.

He climbs into the ring like he’s done this a thousand times. Calm. Efficient. No flashy entrances or chest-beating bravado. Just quiet readiness.

Unlike Thiago—who still paces like a caged beast—Jungkook stands still in his corner, bouncing lightly on his feet, head down, breathing slow. Controlled. Poised.

A storm in waiting.

“What’s his deal?” I mutter, frowning as I watch him from under my hood.

Vicky grins. “That’s Jungkook. He doesn’t talk much, but he moves like poetry.”

Trevor nods. “He’s fast. Thiago hates him.”

“Why?”

“He can’t catch him,” Trevor says with a half-smile. “And when he tries, he gets hit. Hard.”

The bell hasn’t rung yet, but the energy in the room is shifting. The crowd is buzzing, already leaning forward in anticipation. Two men. Two energies. One unhinged rage, the other ice-cold focus.

And I’m standing there in the shadows, heart pounding, watching it unfold like it’s all some dream I don’t belong in.

But I can’t look away from Jungkook.

There’s something about him—quiet, deadly, beautiful in a way that shouldn’t belong in a place like this. Like he’s made of sharp edges and unspoken things.

And I have no idea why he’s making my chest feel like this.

The moment the bell rings, everything changes.

Jungkook and Thiago explode into motion at the same time, their bodies colliding with a sickening thud as the crowd roars around us. The sound is deafening, a mass of screaming voices and wild excitement. I can’t take my eyes off them. The chaos, the violence, the raw power—it feels like it’s coming at me in waves.

Thiago lunges first, furious and relentless. His fists are like battering rams, crashing into Jungkook’s body, and the crowd is losing it, egging Thiago on. The sound of flesh hitting flesh is sickening, and I feel a rush of unease—nausea swirling in my stomach.

But then, Jungkook moves.

It’s so fast, so fluid, that I barely register what happens until Thiago’s momentum is thrown off. Jungkook ducks under his next punch, a move so smooth it’s like watching someone glide through water. He weaves out of the way, and then, like a snake striking, his fist connects with Thiago’s jaw with a crack that echoes through the room.

Thiago stumbles back, and the crowd goes wild. Thiago roars in frustration, lunging again—but this time, Jungkook’s ready. His footwork is impeccable, always staying just out of reach, and every time Thiago throws a punch, Jungkook dodges it like he’s reading Thiago’s mind.

And then, in an instant—Jungkook moves in, faster than I can process. He shifts, gets in close, and with one sharp, devastating blow to Thiago’s midsection, he drives his opponent to the mat. The crowd gasps.

Thiago struggles to get back up, but it’s no use. Jungkook moves in again, his body like a machine, precision in every movement. With a calculated swing, Jungkook lands another hit—this one to Thiago’s head.

Thiago falls.

The crowd goes wild, a tidal wave of cheers and screams as Thiago is knocked out cold. Jungkook stands over him, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. His nose is bloodied, but his eyes are laser-focused, scanning the crowd as he stands tall, shoulders heaving, sweat glistening across his skin. He’s breathless, but there’s no sign of slowing down.

The referee steps in, holding up Jungkook’s arm.

“Winner!” he shouts into the microphone, his voice drowned out by the roar of the crowd. “Jungkook!”

My breath catches in my throat as I watch Jungkook stand there, still and proud, despite the blood smeared across his face. He doesn’t celebrate like Thiago would have—no shout of triumph, no cocky grin. He just stands there, like this is exactly where he was meant to be.

I’m still frozen in place when the crowd starts to quiet down, and my eyes move to Vicky.

“How do you know these two?” I ask, still watching Jungkook as he wipes the blood from his nose, catching his breath. “You’ve been here before, right?”

Vicky glances at me, her eyes flashing with something I can’t quite place. “In my four years of studying psychology here? Yeah. I’ve been to this place three times. Every time, I’ve seen Jungkook win.”

My brow furrows. “Three times?”

Vicky shrugs, leaning in to make herself heard over the fading buzz of the crowd. “Jungkook doesn’t lose. Ever. And not just here, either. He’s been in the underground circuit for a while now. He doesn’t talk much, but the guy’s a machine. Everyone here knows that.”

I’m still staring at Jungkook. The blood on his face doesn’t make him look weak—it makes him look… stronger. Like the fight is a part of him, something embedded in his bones. The way he carries himself—the way he moves—it’s like there’s nothing in the world that could touch him.

He’s not just a fighter. He’s something else.

I try to push the feeling down, the one stirring in my chest, but it’s there. Something about him pulls at me.

“He’s scary,” I whisper, though the words don’t feel like they fit the way I’m feeling. It’s more than fear. It’s something like… awe. And maybe a little envy.

“Scary?” Vicky laughs. “Nah. He’s a fighter. And trust me, if you ever find yourself in his corner, you’ll know exactly why people respect him.”

I don’t answer. My mind is too wrapped up in the image of him standing in the ring—barely breathing, bloodied, but still unshaken.

I’m about to turn away and find a quiet corner to collect my thoughts when a sharp pang hits my stomach.

I can’t ignore it.

“Vicky…” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Vicky doesn’t even look at me, still watching the ring as the crowd starts to thin. She gestures to the far side of the room, near the back exit. “Down that hall, last door on the left.”

I nod quickly and make my way through the maze of bodies and noise, feeling like I’m moving through a fog. I don’t care what’s going on around me—I just need to get some space, somewhere I can breathe and not feel so… exposed.

The hallway is dim, the walls dirty and covered in old graffiti. I find the door easily enough. But when I push it open, my stomach drops.

There’s no sign for male or female. Just a simple bathroom with no distinction.

Great.

I freeze for a moment, standing in the doorway. I can hear people in the bathroom—voices. Laughter. But I’m not sure if they’re men or women, and the last thing I want is to stumble into a situation where I’m forced to confront anything uncomfortable. I can feel my pulse thudding in my ears.

There’s a stall at the far end, empty.

Without thinking twice, I rush in, lock the door behind me, and press my back to the cool metal of the stall. The air feels thick again, like it’s closing in around me, and I force myself to take slow, steady breaths, in and out.

But it’s not enough.

The panic is rising—fast. My hands start to shake, my chest tightens. I try to block it out, but the air feels suffocating, too thick, too hot. I can hear the muffled sound of footsteps and the low murmur of voices from the other side of the bathroom.

Just breathe. It’s fine. You’re fine.

But I’m not.

The panic is already clawing at my throat when the door to the bathroom swings open. Two women walk in, their voices high-pitched and giggly. I bite my lip, forcing myself to stay as still as possible, praying they won’t notice me.

“Oh my God, did you see Jungkook out there?” One of them says, her voice dripping with excitement.

“Yesss!” the other responds, laughing. “I was like, wow—how is he so hot? Like, he’s got that whole dangerous vibe, you know?”

“Totally,” the first one giggles again. “I would literally do anything to be with him. I don’t care if he’s a fighter. He can take me down anytime.”

My stomach twists. I close my eyes, feeling the heat rush to my face. This is exactly what I hate. This feeling of being on the outside, the feeling of not being the one they’re talking about. Not being the one that someone notices.

“Can you imagine how good he must be in bed? I bet he’s rough,” the second woman whispers with a smirk. “Like, you know, he’s got that energy. He could probably have any girl he wants. Hell, he’s probably had every girl he’s ever looked at.”

My heart stops. My hands are trembling against the cold stall door, but I can’t bring myself to leave. I can’t seem to move. The words echo in my ears, over and over, and I want to scream.

Why does this bother me so much? Why does this hurt?

I can’t understand it.

I want to run out of here. I want to disappear. I want to get away from the laughing, the whispered thoughts about Jungkook, about how he’s someone they can have—someone they want.

For a second, I wonder if I’ll ever be wanted like that. If anyone will ever look at me the way these girls are looking at Jungkook.

Stop.

I breathe in deeply, trying to steady myself again. My fingers are cold and clammy as I grasp the edge of the toilet paper dispenser. The walls of the stall feel like they’re closing in on me, but I force myself to stay still. I have to. If I move, it’ll make everything worse.

The last thing I need is for them to hear my panic, my heavy breathing, my brokenness.

The girls continue talking, oblivious to me in my corner.

“God, I’m so jealous,” the first girl sighs, “but I bet I’d die if he even looked at me.”

“You think he’d go for a girl like us?” the second one snickers. “Doubt it. He’s probably all about the hot, fit girls. You know the type.”

The conversation continues as if I’m not even here, and I can feel the sting of their words, even though I try to push them down.

He doesn’t want girls like us.

The thought slips out before I can stop it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t make the hurt go away.

I wait for what feels like forever, the girls’ laughter and giggling fading as they finally leave the bathroom. Their footsteps echo down the hallway, their voices growing softer with each step. The silence that follows feels too loud, too heavy.

I take a few more slow breaths, trying to steady myself. The panic is ebbing, though the tightness in my chest lingers. You’re okay. It’s over. Just get out of here.

I wipe my clammy hands on the sides of my jeans and push open the stall door. My legs feel weak, unsteady, as I step out into the dim hallway, my heart still hammering in my chest.

Just get to the door.

I make my way toward the exit, trying to ignore the lingering heaviness in my chest. But as I round the corner, I’m blindsided by a sharp collision.

“Oof!” The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. I stumble back, my phone slipping from my hand and hitting the floor with a hard thud.

I immediately bend down, scrambling to pick it up. My face flushes with embarrassment, my hands shaking as I retrieve the phone, fingers fumbling for a moment as I focus too much on my own awkwardness.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammer, voice barely above a whisper as I stand up, still feeling the warmth of my cheeks. My eyes instinctively dart to the floor, avoiding any kind of eye contact. The last thing I need is for someone to see how flustered I am. Especially not after all those words in the bathroom, all those thoughts swimming in my mind.

Then I hear a low chuckle.

I freeze. My stomach lurches, the breath in my lungs catches.

No way.

I look up—and there he is.

Jungkook.

He’s standing in front of me, his presence almost overwhelming. He’s no longer in the fighting gear, but even in casual clothes, he still carries that intimidating aura. His shirt is loose, sleeves rolled up to show off his tattooed arms, and his black jeans sit low on his hips. His black mullet hangs a little messy, slightly wet from sweat or maybe water.

But what catches my attention first—what makes my stomach twist—is his face.

Bruises. Dark, angry purple bruises marking his cheekbone, a cut across his lip, and his nose—still swollen and bleeding slightly. The aftermath of the fight. But even with all that, there’s something so… captivating about him. Like a storm you can’t look away from.

I feel my heart pounding harder, my palms slick. Every insecurity I’ve ever had seems to slam into my chest all at once. Oh my God. I must look like a mess. No makeup, a baggy hoodie, messy hair. He’s so… perfectly put together—even with the bruises.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. I stand there, completely frozen, completely aware of how ridiculous I must look. I hate how much I want to hide.

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asks, his voice surprisingly soft considering the way he fights. His eyes—dark and unreadable—scan me for a second, waiting for a response. He tilts his head, an eyebrow quirking slightly as if waiting for me to speak.

For a moment, I can’t find my voice.

What the hell am I supposed to say to him?

“I—uh—yeah, I’m fine,” I stammer, cringing at how small my voice sounds. “Sorry about, um, bumping into you. I wasn’t looking where I was going…”

He chuckles again, this time a little quieter, almost like he’s amused by my awkwardness. “No problem.” His gaze shifts down to my phone in my hand, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, like a silent understanding. “You should probably hold onto that better. Might break it next time.”

I nod quickly, biting my lip. “Yeah. I’ll, uh, be more careful.”

The silence stretches between us, and I can’t stop myself from feeling completely out of place. His mere presence—his proximity—feels like a weight on my chest. I want to say something more, something that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot, but the words are stuck in my throat.

What is he even doing here? My brain races. Why is he talking to me?

The bruises on his face, the way he carries himself, the intensity he exudes—everything about him screams confidence, while I can barely keep myself together.

“Hey,” he says again, his voice quieter this time, almost like he’s trying to make sure I’m not completely shut down. “You’re alright. You don’t have to apologize.”

I look up, meeting his eyes for the first time since I bumped into him, and for a split second, I forget how to breathe. His gaze is steady, almost piercing, and there’s something strangely gentle in the way he looks at me—like he’s trying to figure me out.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur again, my voice soft, barely audible. “I… didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

He shakes his head slightly, a small, amused smirk curling on his lips. “No trouble. But if you’re gonna keep bumping into me, I might start thinking you’re doing it on purpose.”

My face burns. I can’t believe this is happening. He’s standing right in front of me, and I’m acting like I’ve never spoken to a guy in my life. I’m sure I look like a mess.

I look down again, hoping he won’t notice how flustered I am. But when I glance back up, I catch a glimmer of something in his eyes—a mix of curiosity and something else I can’t place.

“Well, I’ll make sure to avoid you next time,” I mumble, trying to force a smile, but it feels so awkward.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything right away, but his gaze softens just a fraction. “Don’t worry about it,” he replies simply, his voice steady, like he’s seen this kind of thing a thousand times.

And then, with a slight nod, he turns and walks past me, heading back toward the crowd, leaving me standing there in the dim hallway, my heart racing, my breath still shaky.

Did that really just happen?

Monday

The morning light hits different when you’ve had a whole weekend to forget the world. I wake up to the sharp trill of my alarm and the sun creeping through the blinds like it’s personally offended I’m still in bed.

Vicky and Trevor left late last night, their hugs lingering longer than usual. We spent the rest of the weekend curled up on my couch, talking about everything—really talking. The kind of conversations that make you feel both lighter and heavier at the same time. The ones that peel you open in a way that’s terrifying but necessary.

Vicky told me she’s worried about how I retreat when I’m hurting. Trevor said he thinks I deserve to stop living like I’m waiting for something to break. I didn’t say much. Just nodded a lot. Smiled at the right parts. I don’t know how to explain that sometimes, talking about the darkness makes it feel more real.

But it felt good.

Safe.

And now Monday feels like a slap.

I throw on my usual work-from-home uniform—baggy hoodie, leggings, messy bun—and log in just before my boss can ping me. My headset’s tangled, my coffee’s lukewarm, and the emails are already giving me hives.

By 10 a.m., I’ve mentally clocked out.

I’m rereading the same sentence for the third time when Katherine messages me.

Katherine (10:03 AM):

Hey! Got a sec to hop on a quick call?

Katherine is the kind of person who always has her camera on during Zoom meetings. Perfect hair. Perfect lighting. She once told me she drinks celery juice every morning. I pretend to like her but mostly because I’m afraid she’ll sense my existential dread through the screen and report me to HR.

I reply with a thumbs-up emoji and brace myself.

She starts with small talk—weather, client updates, a weird squirrel that got into her balcony. And then she says it.

“So, this is random,” she begins, her tone suddenly shifting. “But... you were at The Pit this weekend, right?”

I blink. “How do you know about that?”

She smiles like she’s trying to be casual. “One of my best friends is in that crowd. I used to go with her sometimes. Total chaos. Honestly, I thought you were more... I don’t know, library-core?”

I laugh awkwardly. “It was a surprise outing.”

“Ah. That explains it.” She leans closer to the camera like she’s about to deliver state secrets. “So listen… I’m telling you this as a friend, okay? Don’t get too caught up in Jungkook.”

My stomach flips.

I try to keep my expression neutral. “I’m not… I don’t even know him.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, “just in case. I’ve known him for a while. He runs with a rough crowd. Really rough. He’s not some tortured artist or romantic bad boy. He’s a fighter. Like, literally and metaphorically. The guy doesn’t let people close. And if he does? It never ends well.”

I swallow. “Okay…”

She shrugs, taking a sip from her green smoothie. “He’s rich, by the way. Like, crazy rich. Family money. Old money. The kind that hides skeletons behind designer walls. He’s rebelling against it, or whatever. But still—trust me, girls like us?” Her voice softens, almost sympathetically. “We don’t survive guys like him.”

I stare at the screen.

Katherine offers a smile like she’s just done me a favor. “Anyway. Just thought you should know. Back to work!”

The call ends.

And I sit there, headphones still on, heart pounding, trying to make sense of everything she just said.

Girls like us.

We don’t survive guys like him.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Because I already knew that.

But hearing it out loud?

It stings in a way I wasn’t ready for.

The call ends.

And it’s like the silence in my apartment changes shape—heavier, sharper, pressing in from all sides.

I stare at my screen, blinking at the spreadsheet I was supposed to be editing, but all I can see is his face again. Jungkook’s bruised jaw. His quiet stare. The way his voice was soft when he asked if I was okay.

I thought it meant something.

God, I’m so stupid.

Why did I even let myself feel anything at all? One second of attention from someone like him and I’m already spinning stories in my head. Already hoping. Already aching.

But he’s not a story.

He’s not the exception.

He’s a walking warning sign with pretty tattoos and a reputation I should’ve seen coming a mile away.

And me?

I’m the girl who doesn’t even look in mirrors.

The girl who flinches when someone raises their voice.

The girl who hides from kindness because it always turns into disappointment.

What the hell was I thinking?

I push my laptop away and curl in on myself, wrapping my hoodie tighter around my body like it might hold all the unraveling parts together.

It’s pathetic, how easily I fall back into this. This sadness. This hole. Like I never even tried to climb out.

My chest feels tight again. Like there’s not enough air in the room, not enough silence in the world to quiet the noise in my head. Katherine’s voice keeps looping:

“Girls like us… we don’t survive guys like him.”

She’s right.

Not just because he’s dangerous—but because I’m already drowning.

I don’t need someone like him lighting a fire next to the flood.

I’m barely surviving myself.

I can’t afford to let someone else in. Especially someone who could burn me just by standing too close. I’ve done that before—opened the door a crack and let someone walk in like they had a right to rearrange the furniture in my soul.

And when they left, they took everything I had with them.

I won’t survive that again.

I don’t care how soft his voice was. I don’t care how different he seemed. I don’t care about the way his eyes looked like they could hold secrets.

I’m not his mystery to solve.

I’m not some redemption arc.

I’m tired.

I just want to be left alone.

So I grab my phone, fingers trembling, and type out a message to Vicky.

me (11:21 AM):

hey. Can we talk later?

She replies almost instantly.

Vicky (11:22 AM):

of course. you okay?

me:

not really.

Vicky:

I’m here. whatever you need.

I drop the phone onto the bed and let myself cry.

Not the quiet, hidden kind this time—but the ugly sobs. The ones that shake my whole body. The ones that feel like mourning.

Because that’s what this is.

I’m mourning the version of me who thought, even for a second, that maybe someone like Jungkook could want someone like me.

But that girl doesn’t get to stay.

She was too hopeful.

Too naive.

And hope? It’s just another way to hurt yourself when you know better.

-

The apartment walls feel like they’re closing in again.

My chest is still heavy from crying, my eyes swollen and tired, but I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday. My stomach growls like it’s mocking me, like even it is tired of my emotions.

I don’t want to go outside. I really, really don’t.

But I don’t have the energy to argue with myself anymore.

So I throw on the armor—the same oversized black hoodie I’ve worn three days in a row, the one that swallows me whole. Baggy sweatpants that drag at the hem, sleeves covering my hands. Greasy hair scraped into a low, half-hearted bun. No makeup. Glasses on. Invisible mode activated.

If anyone looks at me, they’ll see nothing worth seeing.

Which is exactly the point.

The convenience store is just down the block. Two turns and I’m there. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. I keep my head low, shoulders hunched, heart pounding in my ears for no reason at all.

I grab a pre-made sandwich, a pack of chips, something sweet. Something to feel something. The cashier doesn’t say much. I pay and leave, crinkling plastic bag in one hand, the weight of my exhaustion in the other.

And then—

I hear it.

A low, throaty vrrrrmmmm.

A motorcycle.

It pulls up to the curb just as I step outside. Black. Shiny. Sleek. Yamaha. The kind of bike that looks fast even when it’s parked.

The rider is dressed in all black—black jeans, black hoodie, black gloves, black helmet. The mirrored visor reflects the late afternoon haze, faceless and quiet.

But somehow—somehow—he looks straight at me.

Not at the store. Not at the sidewalk.

At me.

I freeze.

My breath catches in my throat. My pulse spikes. No one sees me—no one is supposed to see me. Especially not like this. Especially not him.

Because I know.

I know it’s him.

Even before he moves, before he speaks—my bones recognize the tension, the quiet storm under the surface. My body flinches like it’s muscle memory.

I take a shaky step back. Then another. My fingers curl tighter around the plastic bag like it’ll protect me. I turn, heart in my throat, ready to bolt in the opposite direction.

But then—

“Hey!”

Just one word.

But it’s enough.

The voice is familiar—low, rough around the edges, quiet in that way that still demands attention. Not yelling. Not sharp. Just… deliberate.

And it comes from behind me.

I freeze mid-step.

My grip tightens on the bag, but I don’t turn around. My whole body tenses like I’m waiting for the ground to open and swallow me whole.

Please no. Please let me be wrong.

But then—

“You dropped this.”

I glance down. My receipt flutters on the pavement behind me.

I should keep walking. I want to keep walking.

But something in that voice… that calm, steady voice—it wraps around my ribs like wire and holds me still.

I turn, just a little.

And there he is.

Helmet off now. Tousled black hair clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat or wind. Dark eyes, unreadable. That same bruised jaw from the fight. That same calm chaos in the way he stands, like he’s always ready to run or punch something—but right now, he’s doing neither.

He holds out the receipt between two fingers, casual like he’s done nothing unusual.

I don’t take it.

I can’t move.

I just stare at him, half-hidden behind the oversized hoodie and fogged-up glasses, knowing full well there’s nothing about me worth noticing—but he still is.

His eyes linger for a second.

Not in a gross way.

Just… curious.

Like he’s trying to place me.

“You are familiar, didn’t we spoke this weekend after my fight?” he says, voice soft but certain.

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

He waits a second longer, like he’s giving me a chance to say something—to confirm or deny or at least react—but I just stand there, frozen in oversized fabric and fear.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says after a moment, voice even lower now. Almost gentle. “You okay?”

Something in me cracks.

I shake my head—not to answer the question, but to shake off the moment. The whole thing. Him. This.

I take a shaky step back, then another, until I turn away again. This time, I do walk.

Fast.

He doesn’t follow.

But I can still feel his eyes on me.

And it hurts in a way I wasn’t ready for.

By the time I get back to my apartment, I’m sweating under my hoodie even though it’s barely 65 degrees out. My legs feel like they’re made of wet sand. I shut the door behind me, double lock it, and lean against it like maybe it’ll hold me up better than my spine currently can.

What the actual fuck just happened?

I drop the plastic bag on the kitchen counter and stare at it like it might answer me.

How the hell did he end up here?

What are the odds? No—seriously. Statistically. What are the goddamn odds that Jungkook, bruised, violent, beautiful Jungkook, the guy from the underground fight club with a face like a problem I’d never solve—what are the odds that he parks his sleek-ass murder-cycle right in front of my stupid corner store?

Does he live around here?

Does he live on my street?

Fucking hell.

My head spins. I kick off my shoes and shuffle toward my room like a zombie with trust issues. I don’t even bother with lunch. I just face-plant onto my bed and let out a strangled scream into my pillow.

Muffled, of course. Don’t want the neighbors to call someone.

My brain is already galloping down all the wrong roads.

What if he does live nearby? What if I see him again? What if he recognizes me next time, not just as “the girl from the fight” or “the hoodie gremlin who nearly dropped her sandwich,” but me—the real, fragile, overthinking version who wears pain like perfume and flinches when people care?

God, what if he saw through me already?

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

And just like that, it begins.

The daydream.

The soft edges blur and shift, my breathing slows, and the version of reality I can actually tolerate starts to take shape.

In this one, I’m still me—but I’m her, too.

The cooler version. The one who didn’t flinch. Who took the receipt with a small smirk, thanked him, maybe even made a joke that made his bruised mouth curve into a smile.

Maybe he would’ve asked my name.

Maybe I would’ve told him.

Maybe we would’ve sat on the curb, talking about the way silence sometimes feels safer than words. Maybe he would’ve looked at me like I wasn’t invisible. Like I wasn’t too much or not enough or anything in between.

In this version, I’m magnetic. Mysterious. Someone he wants to chase.

Not someone who runs.

Not someone who hides.

But the fantasy falters the second my phone buzzes.

A calendar notification.

Break over. Back to work.

I blink, and the ceiling collapses.

The daydream dissolves like mist under a spotlight.

And I’m back here again.

Greasy hair. Unanswered emails. Sandwich still untouched on the counter.

I sit up with a groan and reach for my laptop, the screen lighting up with the cruel reminder that no matter how hard I try to disappear, the world still expects me to perform.

Because I don’t get to be the girl in the fantasy.

I just get to pretend I'm okay for eight more hours.

-

It’s been three days.

Three long, weirdly quiet days since that day outside the convenience store.

He didn’t follow me.

He didn’t try to talk to me again.

But I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Or him.

Or the way his voice sounded when he said “hey” like it wasn’t a loaded word, like it didn’t feel like it cracked something open in my chest.

But today, I need air.

I’ve answered all my emails. Sat through two Zoom meetings where I didn’t say a word. Ate half a protein bar and convinced myself that counted as lunch. The weather’s decent. Grey sky, soft breeze. Not hot, not cold. The kind of weather that makes you feel invisible in a good way.

So I shower. Real clothes aren’t an option—my body still feels like a burden—but I pull on my cleanest hoodie and loose cargo pants. I throw on some concealer, smudge some eyeliner. Just enough to look… functional. Human-adjacent. Lip balm, not lipstick.

My comfort zone.

I pop a Red Bull from the fridge, grab my lighter and smokes, and head out.

The walk to the park is quiet. Familiar. It’s only a few blocks away—lined with sad little trees, apartment windows with peeling paint, and the occasional dog-walker tugging along a leash like it’s a lifeline.

By the time I get there, I’m already feeling a little lighter.

I head straight to the bench.

My bench.

The one facing the outdoor fitness area. It’s a concrete platform with metal bars and makeshift equipment—mostly used by shirtless guys trying to impress no one in particular. Usually, I avoid the place when it’s busy. But I’ve learned the timing.

Late afternoons on weekdays? It’s usually empty.

Quiet enough to breathe.

I sit down, crack the can open with a hiss, and take a long sip. The carbonation burns down my throat, sharp and sweet. I pull a cigarette from my sleeve and light it, the flame catching with a soft flick. First drag, and the world slows down.

My mind goes quiet.

For once.

I exhale smoke into the open air, let it drift above me, unfurling like a sigh I didn’t know I was holding.

And then—I see him.

At first, I don’t realize it’s him.

I just register movement.

Someone using the pull-up bar.

Shirtless. Muscled. Moving with a kind of effortlessness that makes my stomach flip.

I glance up, casual.

And freeze.

It’s him.

Jungkook.

His back is to me, muscles flexing as he pulls himself up again and again, like he’s chasing something only he can see. The tattoos on his arms are vivid under the dull light, ink curling down to his wrist in sharp, beautiful lines.

He drops down from the bar, hands on his hips, chest heaving with each breath.

He’s glowing with sweat.

And for a second—I forget how to exist.

He doesn’t see me.

Not yet.

I duck my head fast, pulling my hoodie slightly forward like it’s a curtain I can hide behind. I take another drag of my cigarette, hoping the smoke masks the sudden panic rising in my throat.

Why is he here?

Again?

Does he live around here? Was Katherine right?

Or is this just some twisted coincidence?

He wipes his face with the edge of his tank top, and I catch a glimpse of more tattoos on his ribs—black ink over golden skin—and I have to look away. My heart’s beating like I’ve done a line of adrenaline instead of just caffeine and smoke.

I shouldn't be looking.

He’s not for me.

He’s a storm in a human body. A fighter. A blur of danger and sharp edges.

And I’m just… this.

This hoodie.

This body.

This invisible mess on a park bench, pretending the world isn’t too much.

But even as I look away—

I can feel it.

That shift.

That pull.

And when I glance back, just once, just quick—

His eyes are on me.

Right on me.

Unmistakable.

Direct.

Not in a flirty, playful, hey-girl way.

No.

It’s deeper than that.

Like he remembers me.

Like he sees something he doesn’t quite understand.

I look away so fast I almost drop my Red Bull.

My fingers are shaking again.

What the fuck is happening?

Why does it feel like he’s always three steps ahead of where I want him to be?

[kingkat12]

fuck-me eyes and first times (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, piv sex, loss of virginity, inexperienced sex?, oral sex (female receiving), mutual masturbation, awkward real moments lol, dry-humping, use of contraceptives, drunk driving, Roman using his powers for good?, blood, FLUFF, a dash of angst

summary: you've been unlucky with your first times all your life-- but tonight, you're sleeping with the equivalent of your shooting star.

word count: 12,140 (i love you guys, do u see)

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°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･seven minutes in heaven masterlist

a/n: FINALLY THEY’RE FUCKING ISTG?? tihiii this is a bit of a different chapter!! i'm dead tired of reading smut where everything goes perfectly the first time and they barely communicate, so hopefully this will be a bit more realistic (hopefully!!) sorry for the wait, and hope you enjoy!!!!!!;)

The first time I broke a bone, I kicked my foot into the wall in a fit of rage.

The first time I got an A on a test, I cheated by writing the answers under my skirt. 

And the first time I lost a friend? That was the story of how I got here in the first place.

To say my track record for first times was bad, was an understatement. I didn't see myself as an angel of the world. However, as I glanced to the side for a brief moment at an intersection, I looked directly at the man who'd often joke he was the devil. Roman had spread out in the passenger seat, still a little drunk as his long legs rested against the dashboard. It didn't matter how many times I told him to take them down, that if I were to crash his car he'd fold in two and die-- he didn't care. 

We were still a little intoxicated from the party, but I was in a better condition than him, which was why I was driving; something he'd never let me do if he wasn't in this state. Roman's head lolled back against his seat, his eyes closing as he hummed along to the music. Space Song by Beach House was always my favorite song to drive to at night, and I was glad he seemed to like it as well.

The first time I heard this song, I had been driving home after getting introduced to Letha at a party. I was over the moon, happy to have finally found a person in this wretched town that I could enjoy the company of. I had been so dreadfully bored of all the others. 

Letha was a good hugger. A good listener-- never scared to tell the truth, especially as we grew closer.

"Roman is my baby cousin, I love him to death, but damn he can be annoying," she had said, smiling at me as she leaned against the kitchen counter. "The amount of friends I have lost to him is just crazy. Every single one seems to fall over like dominoes whenever he's around, and honestly? I don't get it. Maybe it's because we're related and all, but there has to be a fucking limit to how many times something like this can happen? How many times can he sleep with my friends and get away with it? Him doing that is the same as me sleeping with Peter, it's just not okay! I would never fucking do that! This situation is becoming hysterical, to be honest."

I remember frowning-- "Hysterical?"

"Yeah... If I wasn't so pissed at him, I'd just laugh at the absurdity," Letha's green eyes remained kind despite the heaviness of the topic. "But at the end of the day, I'm glad I get to keep you to myself. My previous friends were nothing compared to you."

Letha's words were sweet, but something felt off. I smiled as I spoke, hoping to keep my query a light one; "What do you mean, keep me to yourself? Gonna chain me up, Letha?" I gave her shoulder a nudge as she laughed. 

"Not like that, you freak! I mean that Roman doesn't seem interested in you at all, so I feel safe that you'll stay. And if he were to be, you'd never do anything like that to me," She put away her empty can of beer, and something in her eyes shifted just a smidge-- I wouldn't have caught it if my senses hadn't been sharpened by the mention of his lack of interest in me. 

"... Right?" Letha asked, urging a response. It seemed to dawn on her that she sounded on the brink of bitterness, and she broke out into an even wider smile to compensate; "You don't seem like the type to sleep with my cousin, but maybe I'm wrong?"

"Never," was what I had answered that night.

Never... Gosh, I was delusional to think I could behave. 

Once again, I glanced at Roman at the next red light, watching the way one strand of hair strayed from his stylings and laid in a soft wave over his forehead. He opened his big, green eyes, smirking as he realized he was being watched-- "Eyes on the road,"

It was embarrassing how fast I blushed. I quickly nodded, gripping the steering wheel harder as I fixated on the red light above us. "Was it the next intersection I needed to get off on?" I asked, hoping not to linger on the subject of my peeking. "Could you maybe turn on the GPS on my phone just in case you fall asleep?"

"I'm not sleeping," Roman prompted, holding out his hand to take my phone.

As I reached for it in my back pocket, I felt it vibrate as the lights turned green. I gave Roman my phone, in a rush to not miss the light even though we were the only ones on the highway. "Who's calling?" 

Roman didn't answer me-- I pieced together who it was when he started greeting my mom.

Oh no. 

I freed one hand from the steering wheel, trying to get a hold of my phone as Roman quietly laughed at my attempt. I didn't succeed; "Yeah, she's here," he said, grinning as he motioned for me to keep driving. "I hoped to have her stay over at my place tonight, as my mother is desperate to meet your lovely daughter."

I rolled my eyes, mouthing a simple fuck you. Roman had to bite down on his lip to suppress a laugh-- we both knew his mom was out of town and that his intentions were far from anything as pure as to introduce me to her. 

My mom seemed flustered by his pleasantries on the other side of the phone, but I couldn't make out the specifics of what she was saying. It didn't sound like she was objecting, though. 

Roman nodded along as he turned down the music on the stereo and (finally) removed his legs off the dashboard. "No, of course, I wouldn't dream of giving your daughter any alcohol! Yes-- Yes, we were at a party just now, but we're both sober as rocks!" He glanced at me, mischief dancing in the green of his eyes.

The look on his face now was priceless. Although he was lying to my mom right up her face (her ear?), he still looked damn charming as always.

"Uh-huh..." Roman mumbled, now reciting his phone number at her request. "We'll probably be up having dinner, so you can call me anytime if you have any questions!-- Yes, I know it's late to have dinner, but my mother is European like that. Your daughter is in good hands, don't worry!"

I rolled my eyes once more, knowing how fond my mom was of him and how easily she'd eat all of this up. When Roman finally got off the call, he broke out into a string of laughter-- "Your mom is so damn sweet, but I can tell she's terrified we'll have sex. It seems you've taken after her,"

"I'm not terrified!" I whined, turning left to get off the highway.

He snorted; "I was two seconds away from telling her I have a stash of condoms, and that she shouldn't worry about having to take care of a mini-me when you leave for college,"

I did my best not to blush-- this conversation was getting more and more suggestive. "Shut up," I mumbled. "I'm not terrified."

Roman's eyes softened as he sat back in his seat and watched me drive his car. I knew I was giving away my true feelings regarding the matter with the way I was anxiously tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. I continued; "I just had you locked in a closet trying to convince you I'm not. It's not that big of a deal,"

"Relax, I'm just teasing you," Roman ran his fingers through his hair, gazing into the rearview mirror to check how messed up it had gotten. His red car had an open roof, after all. He sighed, trying to choose his next words wisely. "Not a big deal, you say?"

"Well..." I was unsure whether to be honest or not.

Roman nodded, looking out at all the trees passing us by. His silence was unnerving, and I turned up the music to tune it out. I couldn't stand this. Something in him switched; Maybe he was upset that I said it wasn't a big deal? Or maybe he was realizing it was a big deal to him? I needed to change the subject; "This is the right direction, no? I feel like I'm just driving deeper into the forest--"

"I've never told you this, but after the first time we kissed, I kept having the same dream where never left the seven minutes in heaven closet," Roman placed his head in the palm of his hand as he leaned his elbow against the car door, sighing. "Over and over, every night. Nearly drove me mad. And in the dream, there were no seven minutes, no time limit. So it was just you and I, and we were going at it like fucking crazy."

I held my breath, my eyes widening further with every sentence. What? Was he drunk-rambling or was this something else?

Roman sighed again, attempting to relax as he closed his eyes and stilled in his seat. Like this, I could nearly mistake him for being asleep. "It all started with me wanting to fuck you," he mumbled. "But every night, at the end of the dream, I got greedy... Because suddenly, I also wanted you to love me." 

Had I not been good at keeping calm, I would've probably crashed the car into the nearest tree. I didn't get much time to process, to feel the weight of his confession, until Roman snapped out of it like a character taken straight out of an animation, now sitting up; "Turn here,"

I drove up to a huge gate, stopping the car as I tried to steady my breathing. "Roman--"

"Two seconds," he said, getting out of the car to walk up to the intercom. He was as good as normal now.

I was left still gripping the steering wheel for dear life, my mouth opening and closing as I tried to find the right words. I watched as Roman typed in a code, and the massive gate slowly opened as he jumped back into the car. 

My breath was still held in my chest as I turned to him, eyes wider than plates of expensive china. 

Roman glanced back at me with an innocent smile; the mood had completely switched. "Breathe," he cooed, reaching forward to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "It's just a mansion." With a sharp intake of air, he glanced at the backseat and the crumbled-up hot pink crop top we had brought with us (stolen, actually) from the party-- "A mansion with a possibility to put that anomaly in the fucking laundry."

I turned towards it as well, returning to my mind at the sight of the obnoxious colour of the top-- Knowing I had made him cum into the fabric of it merely an hour ago still felt like a triumph.

... Was it maybe my turn, now?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

And he was right-- this was an absolute castle of a house. I had suppressed the truth about Roman's wealth for as long as I could, not wanting to think about it in case my mind went haywire about it, but now it was smacking me in the face.

Still, Roman's hand on the small of my back was a comfort as he led me through the mansion on the most impromptu show-around I've ever witnessed. "This is the room where I learned how to shoot darts," he mumbled, pointing at the small dents in the wall. "I didn't know the darts were actually stuck to the wall and not the printed dartboard I hung up..." He bent down, picking up the painting his mother had hung up to cover the indents.

I couldn't help but laugh, clinging to his arm as we moved from room to room. The mansion was gothic, vampy, but that might've just been my imagination playing with me. The tall ceilings were intimidating, yet beautiful-- judging by my surroundings, there was no denying that everything around me cost a fortune.

I was yanked out of my trail of thoughts when Roman led me behind a red curtain by one of the big windows in the next room, and I giggled as he wrapped it around us. My back was pressed against the wall, engulfed by both the curtain and Roman's embrace; "This is where I learned how to French," he whispered, smiling as he pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth. "And it was horrible. She fucking bit me and I squealed like a girl."

If Roman was trying to distract me from what he had said in the car, he was certainly doing a good job. The mental image of his first French kiss kept me beyond entertained, and we both continued laughing as he got us out of the wrap of the curtain.

However, it was the walk up the circular stairs that truly made it dawn on me who I was dating-- Roman Godfrey, the future heir to a billion-dollar company. Fuck. I stared up at the painting above us, the one of him and his mother posing with a rather regal-looking background. He couldn't have been more than fourteen in that picture, and I could see his classic intimidating stare through the painting and the way he clutched the chair his mother was posed on. It was clear that the boy in the painting didn't want to be there at all.

Roman turned, realizing what I was looking at; "I fucking hate that one," he grumbled, giving my hand a squeeze. "I refused to smile at that age. I look like I'm on the brink of killing myself."

"Not true," I squeezed his hand back. "Give yourself some grace. How old were you?"

"Fourteen,"

There you go. "Judging by the painting, I think we could've been friends at fourteen,"

Roman stopped in the middle of the curved stairway, his brows drawing together. "How so?"

I shrugged, trying not to focus on how much taller he was than me. If I thought about it for too long, I'd jump him. "Because I wore all black for about a year. If you refused to smile, and I refused to show any joy, I think we would've been a killer duo,"

Roman blinked twice before cracking into a chuckle. "That's unexpected,"

"Bet,"

"You're all... cute and bubbly now,"

"You think?" I wasn't sure how much I agreed. "The girl that's fucking around with her ex-best friend's cousin?"

Roman had to bite down another laugh. "What do you mean, fucking around? I haven't as much as touched you compared to how I could've,"

Oh.

Oh God.

I held back a shiver, staring up at him as he resumed leading me up the stairs. "But... you have touched me,"

"Sure," Roman proceeded to get a proper look at me in the darkness of the night when we reached the second floor. The green around his widened pupils practically shone-- it was impressively cat-like. "Impossible not to, with those fuck-me eyes of yours."

"Hey!" I wasn't sure why I was protesting, but I knew his snicker egged me on. "I don't have... that!"

I could see that Roman was on the brink of cooing at me, and he sucked in a sharp breath as he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. I hadn't seen him this amused in a while. "Right," he purred. "You don't. Not a trace at all." With a short kiss on my forehead, he moved away from me and started walking down the dark corridor. "Keep those fuck-me eyes in the hallway, and I might let you sleep tonight."

I sighed before gearing up into a walking sprint to catch up with his long strides-- If only he knew that sleep was the last thing on my mind. 

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

When we finally reached Roman's bedroom, I couldn't believe the size of it. My room was nothing in comparison. I had certainly not expected the posters-- there were many rare classic horror films and some bands I was sure his mom probably loathed. However, I was surprised by the lack of half-naked models on his walls which I had always imagined; I let out a short, relieved breath. "Your room is nice,"

Roman hummed, throwing his jacket on a chair nearby. "Not too boyish for you?" 

"Nah," I mumbled, walking up to the posters on the opposite wall. There were a lot of movies I hadn't seen yet-- still, I couldn't help but laugh a little when I saw The Godfather. "It's very you."

"How great that you like me, then," 

"Lucky for you, yeah," There was something about this room that I couldn't help but love-- this was where Roman woke up and fell asleep. This was where he probably spent most of his time. I wondered whether the pillows smelled of his going-out cologne or the lighter one he usually wore to school. I wondered whether he'd been caught smoking in here, whether he'd done coke with Peter on his desk, and how many girls he'd had up here. By the likes of it, I somehow doubted anything like that ever happened at his place. If he had waited this long to have me over, I decided it was highly unlikely he'd invite someone he didn't know very well. 

I clasped my hands behind my back, taking long strides as I scanned the many posters on his walls.

Roman sat down on the chair by his desk, spreading out as he watched me with a smirk. "Not what you expected?"

I turned to him, my brows drawing together; "Why? Are you nervous or something?"

"I'm not nervous," Roman huffed, folding his arms over his chest. Now that I was looking straight at him, it was clear that he was. "I'm simply asking."

A knowing smile crept up my cheeks-- it felt like I had the upper hand, for once. "You're nervous,"

"Am not!"

"And now you're fidgeting,"

I was correct; Roman's right leg had given into a slight bounce. He rolled his eyes, muttering curse words under his breath. "It's not every day that I have girls up here, okay? I'm never here, stuff always happens at someone else's-- well, now your room. Because this is, like... my lair,"

I had to bite back an amused smirk; "Your evil lair?"

"Bingo. This is where I dissect people and stuff," He pointed to the table next to him. "So... yeah. Your opinion matters to me, I guess."

"Oh, does it now?"

"On some things, sure,"

I nodded, focusing on how the moonlight was dipping into the dark brown of Roman's hair. He didn't have to be so pretty all the time, did he? How rude. "Such as...?"

With a shrug, Roman now gazed at the tall ceiling. Like this, he almost looked bored. "Your opinion of me is the one that comes to mind, I guess,"

"My opinion of... you?" That was new. 

Roman met my eyes again, this time with a new emotion-- his head was slightly tilted to the side, and he was looking at me through his brows. I had a feeling he didn't intend the look to be as intimidating as it was. "It fluctuates,"

"My opinion?"

"Yep," he said. "Some days, you look at me like I'm everything. And then, the next day, I'm the biggest asshole in the world."

My lips drew together in a tight line-- this was unexpected. "And here I thought I was the only consistent thing in your life," I mumbled. "I don't know, Rome, every couple has its ups and downs, no? But I don't want them to make you doubt what I feel for you. Because... you know, right?" I started taking wary steps across the room. "You know I adore you, there is no way you've managed to miss that?"

With a sigh, Roman sat back in his chair with a smile. "Sure, I know that," he murmured, watching my every step with anticipation. "And I bet that tree you carved our initials into can attest."

Goddamn it. "You're never going to let go of that, are you?" 

As I finally approached him, Roman led me between his legs with a gentle hold around my waist. "Nope," He pressed his lips against my clothed chest, his fingers slowly digging into my top. My arms draped around his neck, and my next words were muffled against his hair; he reeked of his usual cinnamon-flavored cigarettes-- "But sure, if the tree ever starts talking, it will agree. You know I'm crazy about you,"

"Crazy is the keyword here,"

"Oh, shut up," I muttered, pulling away to get a proper look at him. Roman was so damn beautiful-- I had missed the sight of him in the past twenty-four hours I had been unsure of the state of our relationship. "I still can't believe you thought I was going to break up with you... Do you know how shitty you would have to be to drive me to that point?"

Roman pulled me back in again, enjoying the scent of my perfume with his next deep inhale; he pressed a short kiss to my neck. "Let me be paranoid," The next kiss lingered for longer, the warm exhale through his nose grazing my skin.

"But I don't want you to be," I tried. "I don't ever want you to doubt us like that. Never, ever again."

Roman stilled. With a sigh, he spoke; "Okay... but that's where you step into what people in my family call a deathtrap," He motioned for me to sit down in his lap, and with wary movements, I draped my arms around his neck and sat down, allowing him to place a sweet kiss to my cheek. "Deathtrap?" I echoed.

"Deathtrap," Roman shifted, placing one arm around my waist as his free hand traced small circles into my thighs. "Otherwise known as... hope." And just like that, it was as though his mind went elsewhere, as though something in his eyes shifted. 

However, I'd had enough of that-- I wasn't having any of it tonight. Knowing Roman saw hope as a deathtrap made my heart burn. Wary of not being too abrupt, I slowly placed a finger underneath his chin, catching his attention. "If you don't want to harbor any hope of your own, I'll lend you mine," I whispered, gently nudging his nose with mine. 

Roman's pupils dilated as his hot breath fanned against my upper lip. I could smell the beer on him, the cigarettes, yet the most prevalent was the anxiety-- it brushed upon my skin, and caressed my heart. "All of it, Roman," My hand went back into his hair, stroking through the softness of his locks. "All my hope, all my love... it's all yours to borrow. To keep, to mold, to steal, to hold, for as long as you like. It's not a trap of any kind. You're safe with me."

That was all it took, and so he gave in; with the smallest of sighs, Roman closed his eyes, relishing in the moment. "You make me feel... you make me feel," he echoed, almost in disbelief. "It's a painful thing, is it not?"

I dared to let my hand brush down the side of his face, my thumb gently ghosting over his closed lid to feel the softness of his lashes against the pad of my finger. "It doesn't have to be. It could feel really, really good,"

Roman let out a shaky breath against me; "I want that for you," he said, opening his eyes. The green in his eyes shone in the white shimmer of the moonlight, illuminating the intent in his words. "Want to make you feel good... in every way possible." 

Something about the drop in his voice nearly made me shiver-- I couldn't allow myself to, not in his lap. It took a few seconds for me to notice that I was holding my breath, staring back at him with a look on my face which I hoped didn't give away too much. Maybe I had misinterpreted his words? Maybe Roman meant that in a romantic way?

However, with the following upward curve of the corners of his mouth, so small I could barely notice it, I knew my intuition had been right. Roman definitely meant that in a different way. 

... I needed to listen to my intuition more, didn't I?

Roman's hand on my thigh lifted, now removing the vial of blood around my neck to place it on the table nearby; he proceeded to put his palm against my cheek with the gentlest touch, softly caressing my skin with his thumb. This was when it dawned on me that we were alone. Completely alone. Possibly for the first time ever. No interruptions, with no one to hear anything. Had this been a month ago, that fact alone would've been enough to make me jump off his lap, and I would've probably paced up and down along his room with nervous steps to soothe my anxiety. Being alone with him meant that I wouldn't be able to contain my need for him, I was sure of it.

But now? I believed Roman could do that for me. Soothe me. He could calm me down like no other. Now, I knew he wouldn't run off after getting what he wanted-- because now, I knew that what he truly wanted was me. 

"Could you let me do that?" Roman breathed, the green of his eyes finding my lips. I was confused as to how I hadn't melted into his lap already. "Make you feel good?" He leaned forward, just a few inches, now brushing the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip, transfixed. "Or... are you sure you want to do this? Have your first time with someone like me?"

There was something about the fact that he was even asking-- the old Roman would never. "Who else would I have my first time with? It's always been you," My lips parted in a soundless intake of breath, my gaze darting to his plush, pink lips. Like this, I could almost feel them against me; we had kissed so many times that my body remembered the sweet push of his lips simply by gazing at them. Still, I was afraid it would never be enough, and every kiss was as thrilling as the first one. "Just being with you like this feels good already."

Roman hummed, absentminded. "Not what I'm getting at,"

"I know," I breathed. "But I can't help but worry that--" I had to clear my throat, swallowing. Why was I getting so damn nervous? It was getting harder to breathe, and I was sure my cheeks were flushing. "Well... That I won't know what to do."

With a sigh, Roman bit down on his lip to hold back a laugh. "It's your first time, you won't have to do much," Despite his lids hanging heavy over his darkening eyes, I could see the want building in him. "I'll take the lead, okay? You just relax." He steadied me with his palm over my cheek before leaning forward-- my body hitched with caution as he brushed his lips across mine, slanted, until I allowed myself to give in. 

The soft pillow of Roman's lips was the sweetest pressure I had ever known. I could feel my blood heat with the intent of the kiss, and I suddenly got the urge to cross my legs to calm myself down-- I knew I couldn't. Roman's breath fell softly against my cheek as my hands went up into his hair, tugging gently at the tips of his dark locks as I kissed him back with my lips slightly parted, moving against his as though he was whispering me a question.

Maybe I didn't hear it-- maybe it was a warning? Had he actually whispered something, or was I imagining things? Because with the next second, Roman hooked his arm under my knees, lifting me off the chair as I yelped into the kiss. It didn't take long before I eased, telling myself he had lifted me many times before, and that he would never drop me. Never, ever. Roman smiled against my lips, humming just slightly as he carried me bridal-style across the room. It felt silly, cliché, until it dawned on me-- was he playing the cliché out for me? Was this what he perhaps imagined I wanted, something pure, something classically virginal?

In the few seconds our kiss was broken, Roman placed me down on the bed and watched as I giggled; it was impossible not to laugh as the recoil of the springs threatened to bounce me up in the air again. He tsked, now grinning as he made space between my legs, drawing me closer before he kissed me once more. It was bolder this time, pressing the soft fullness of his mouth against mine-- there was nowhere else for me to go but to him. 

My hands wove into Roman's hair again, pulling him closer as my heart thumped hard in my chest. Was this really happening? Or was this maybe something I was imagining, maybe the alcohol hadn't left my system yet? "Rome--"

Before I could continue, his lips were on mine again like a magnet, drawing us together, unable to separate the magnetic forces long enough to let me speak. It was confirmed; he was definitely here. This was real. There was an urgency to Roman's stubborn kisses-- you're mine, just accept it. Being kissed into submission was something I had never imagined was possible, yet here I was, my lips parting with a soft whimper, feeling his tongue against mine; it filled me with a complete and utter satisfaction, a final statement. 

I wanted him to devour me. As I coiled my fingers around Roman's dark hair, tugging him closer, I so desperately wanted only that. To melt into him, to become one-- was that maybe the core concept of sex which I had misunderstood all up until this exact moment? Just the thought of being connected with Roman like that, knowing he could possibly be inside me-- that thought had never evoked the physical reaction in me before as it did now. 

Well, fuck. I realized I was screwed before it had even happened.

Sucking in a sharp breath, the silk of Roman's expensive duvets kept me grounded as he softly groaned into my mouth. His tongue circled mine before gently sucking the tip of it into his mouth, and he listened to my whimpers as he withdrew shortly after, a lone string of saliva still linking us. I was unsure why I was left so speechless, why every little thing he did made me feel like my body was on fire, but I knew there was no rationality in need. The innate need ravaging through your veins. There was no way to make sense of it, and I was certain Roman was aware of that too. Yet suddenly, he was near-motionless, blinking twice as if he was a little lost on what to do, which I immediately thought was odd--

Oh. There it was. I was wondering when that would happen. 

So... Roman wasn't lost. Far from it. Flustered might be a better word-- I felt his erection poke into my stomach, and it made me realize how big his pupils had gotten. That was quick. "Uh... Surprise?" He awkwardly cleared his throat as his green eyes nearly devoured me whole. "Fuck it, there's one thing I want to do before we go on. It'll take a second."

I held my breath-- with Roman, that could mean anything. "... Okay?"

"Don't look so scared," he teased, getting off the bed and walking to his nightstand. In my head, I wondered whether he was grabbing condoms, or whether he was about to impose something kinky on me. I was ready to start my rehearsed lecture on going slow with me, that it was my first time and everything, until my mind blanked at the sight of a... candle?

Roman got a lighter nearby, looking back at me with a trying smile. "You once said that me and sweet don't go together," he explained, lighting the candle. "On our first date, I believe, if we can call it that. The blackmail part of it was probably not ideal, but it counts in my head. Anyway, I thought you might be right about the sweet part... but it doesn't mean I shouldn't try to be."

I was afraid I'd melt much, much faster than that candle. "Don't tell me you went out and bought that candle just for this?"

Roman shrugged, hoping to brush it off. "Well... I was determined to prove you wrong. And I had a candle for my first time, and I guess it eased me a little. But, uh... I think this is actually a funeral candle," 

"I see," I had to contain a laugh. Sitting up, I reached for his fingers as I longed to touch him again; "Well, no one's dead yet, but the night is still young."

Unable to hold it, Roman snorted, placing the lighter back on the nightstand before he interlocked our fingers. "I'm never doing anything like this again, so I suggest you cherish it,"

"What? But now I'm growing fond of the funeral candle, you're breaking my heart!"

Roman rolled his eyes, sinking down on the bed again, and he brought our intertwined fingers above my head. "If that's what I need to do to get you in my bed, I'll buy the whole fucking candle company," 

There was something exciting about the fact that Roman genuinely could. It wasn't just an empty threat. If he got high enough one night, I was sure he'd know who to call. I was surprised to feel he was still hard now that his erection was pressed up against me once more, but I didn't get much time to think about it-- Roman freed one of his hands, and he managed to make his way under my top as he kissed me once more.

My breath hitched against the soft push of his lips as it hit me that I might have to get fully naked for this. Fuck. Okay. Yet my anxiety eased at the thought of him being fully naked too-- I found my hips keening up against him, my need for friction growing with my arousal. 

Roman smiled into the kiss; it was a ravenous feeling. "Impatient?" he asked, barely leaving my lips.

"Yeah," It was merely a breath-- I felt his hand ghost over my bra, slowly tracing the hem. I could barely think, too excited to function anymore.

"No need," Roman pulled away, letting go of the remaining hand above my head as his fingers now toyed with the edge of my top. "We have all the time in the world."

His tone was enough to bring scarlet to my cheeks, but I nodded, swallowing when he bunched the fabric up in his hands and lifted it up and off of me. I raised my arms, pouting just slightly at the loss of contact-- who would've thought I'd get more drunk from kissing Roman than the beer Peter gave me earlier? 

With a sigh, Roman's eyes consumed me; the smirk with which he looked down at me only made me more flustered. "Rome," I whined, reaching my hands out for him. "Stop that, get back here. This isn't anything new." That was true-- me in my bra wasn't a sight he hadn't seen before. 

Roman tsked, sending me a stern look. "You're disturbing my thought process,"

"Your thought process?--"

"Yep," he said, shrugging. "I'm just thinking about how I want to cum right..." Roman trailed a line across my lower abdomen with his finger, using a touch so light it immediately made me squirm. "... here."

The squirming quickly turned into a small shiver, and my hands went straight to my face as my blush deepened. 

There was a change in Roman which was noticeable by the way he lost his smile, lost in whatever images he had in his head as he now leaned back down, pressing eager kisses to the apex of my collarbones. His lips trailed down my body, his fingers digging into the sides of my waist-- his mind was gone. I tugged at his hair as he inched further away, and I whimpered at the sensation of his tongue tracing a circle around my belly button. I never expected myself to like anything like that, but damn-- heaven. This was heaven. 

I was reminded of how much bigger Roman was than me when I was suddenly yanked to the edge of the bed, and I could only yelp as I did nothing to fight it. His hands trailed down the sides of my hips, now hooking his fingers around my panties, not yet taking them off-- instead, he was kissing me through my soaked underwear, humming. 

Christ, this was something I could get used to. I managed to register the fact that he wasn't on the bed anymore, and I propped myself up on my elbows with the last remaining power I had to confirm my suspicions. Roman stopped for a moment, pulling away to glance right back at me; "What?"

"You're... kneeling,"

"... Yeah?"

It didn't register in my head. "You don't kneel for anyone," The Roman Godfrey didn't get on his knees for anyone in the world. In my mind, he thought the world should be kneeling to him, and that he would never stoop so low.

However, the look he gave me in return told me everything I needed to know. Come on, now. Roman pulled my underwear off as he spoke, peeling it down my thighs; "I kneel for you," To him, that was as simple as a fact. The most logical thing in the history of the universe. He didn't even seem to deem the subject worthy of a further conversation, now grabbing my hips to bring me even closer to the edge of the bed as I let out a small squeak. Roman led my legs to hang over his broad shoulders as he leaned forward, rings of desire around his eyes as he licked a broad, flat stripe up my sex.

Fuck-- I did my best not to mewl as my fingers reached for his hair once more, twirling into the soft curls of his hair. "Rome--"

At this point, I was sure he wouldn't hear me no matter how loudly I spoke. Roman sensed I was about to start keening against him, and he pulled my legs back and held my thighs in place as he slicked his tongue in between my slit, mouth moving as though he was pressing deep, heavy kisses against me. I whimpered, my grip on his hair loosening as I felt my conscience slip into its usual drugged-on-Roman state. A very, very dangerous state of mind, if you ask me.

Giving me some time to breathe, Roman moved to leave soft kisses up along the crease of my thighs. "Keep your legs like this, okay?" he said, slowly trailing one hand up my thigh. Roman's finger teasingly tapped my clit, and he turned to watch the thin line of slick connecting the pad of his finger to me. It was hard not to squirm, and I brought one hand up to my mouth to hopefully suppress any noise. "Rome, what are you?--"

Oh. My breath hitched as he eased his slicked middle finger into me, careful to go in with slow strokes. I whined against my hand when Roman's mouth returned to me, sealing his perfect lips around my swollen nub, adding pressure. It was almost too much-- I felt myself clench around his finger when he curled it upwards, just as his lips covered my mound, sucking me in. 

"Christ," I breathed, reaching down to grab a hold of Roman's hair, the slick sounds of his mouth making goosebumps appear along my skin as I contained a shiver. "Shit, Rome, it feels-- so, so good--"

My mindless ramble came to an end with the next hitch of my breath; Roman added another finger, humming against me as an answer. With how nervous I was, it was a tight fit, and the sting that followed made me instinctively tighten my fist in his hair, my skin straining over my knuckles. It was hard to keep still, a string of whimpers escaping my lips. 

My hands shook as Roman continued slowly stroking his fingers into me. I wondered whether he could feel my anxiety seeping into my lust-- it was becoming so real. Roman's green eyes darted up at me, stilling his fingers, giving me time to adjust. He pulled away from me, leaving his digits in me as he spoke; "I'm not gonna last long if you tighten up like that later," 

His words conjured a deep blush to my cheeks, and I brought my hands up to my face to hide. "Sorry," I breathed. "I don't-- don't know what's happening."

Roman shrugged, placing a wet, gentle kiss against the inside of my thigh. "You're nervous. It's normal," His hot breath ghosted over my soaked sex as he moved to the other thigh-- "I think it'll help if I make you cum like this. You'll relax more. And I'll keep my fingers in, get you used to the feeling... Unless you want them out?"

For a man who said he didn't deal with virgins, he certainly knew how to talk one down from the cliff. I let out a shaky breath, peeking down at him past my fingers; "N-No, it's okay,"

Roman seemed to be holding back a laugh; "You look a little spooked,"

"I... do?" Knowing my boyfriend, I knew he probably found that incredibly hot.

"A bit. Wanna stop?--"

"No!" That was a little too quick. Fuck. 

Roman chuckled as he proceeded to bite down on the inside of my thigh with a teasing smirk-- I squeaked, clenching around his fingers. "Good," he purred, leaning forward to press a short kiss to my clit, drawing out another squeak from me. Something told me he liked the sound of my pleasured panic. "It's been some time since the last time you let me do this. I've missed the taste of you."

"... It's been, like, four days,"

Roman let out a groan, and I could see in his eyes that it was building in him-- the innate lust. "A fucking eternity," he breathed, a new rasp appearing in his voice. With that, Roman didn't lose a single second leaning back down, slicking his tongue between my folds, returning to suck down on my clit with a moan. 

Oh, well-- I knew I was done for. Still, knowing his goal was to make me cum, knowing I didn't have to hold back, I let my hands wander back into his hair with a whimper of pleasure. It didn't take long before I clenched around his fingers again, the burn of the stretch subsiding with every flick of Roman's tongue. 

"Fuck," I breathed. "Fuck, fuck--"

Any attempt to speak dissolved into incoherent cries, teetering on the edge while pleasure surged through me like a relentless wave. Still, it didn't take more than two more sucks to ease me over, and I felt my climax drawing out long and slow against Roman's mouth, tightening around his fingers with a whimper. 

My head lolled along the duvets as I tried to catch my breath. With every time Roman did this, it only got better-- it was hard to believe that was even possible. I came to my senses when I felt his fingers slide out of me, the twinge of pain having long passed. 

"Fuck," Roman said, a laugh to his voice as he pressed kisses up along my stomach, getting up from the ground. "Best fucking pussy in the world."

God-- I hid my face again, my blush deepening. That dirty mouth of his. "That was so good," I purred, reaching out for him; "Come here, Rome. I miss you up here."

Chuckling, Roman shook his head, motioning for me to scoot further up the bed. "Just a sec," he said, walking back over to his nightstand, opening his drawer again and shuffling around. I did as told, watching him with a sigh; he was right, that orgasm had relaxed me. However, my zen didn't last long-- I suddenly felt all my muscles tightening when I watched Roman bring the fingers he just had in me to his lips, absentmindedly sucking on them as he now held up a silver wrapper with his free hand as though that was the most normal thing in the world. I also spotted a clear bottle which I could only assume was lube. 

What the fuck? The sight of him doing that made me want to disappear into the bed-- why was the sight so... thrilling? It must've been the look of enjoyment on his face. "Oh, that's hot," I mumbled, my eyes immediately widening with the realization of what I had just blurted out.

Roman cocked a brow as he unclasped the vial of my blood around his neck, placing it next to the candle before he got back on the bed, now trailing the residue of spit and slick on his fingers across my thighs. "Well, you taste nice,"

"Not that nice?"

A hum; "Wanna try some, make up your mind?" he asked, a teasing smirk spreading across his plush lips as he brought his hand up to his mouth, wiping off the remnants of my slick to coat his fingers. 

I shivered, grimacing— "No, thanks," Hoping to distract Roman from trying to convince me, I sat up, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. Frankly, I had enough of being the only one that was undressed.

Roman hummed, following my hands with his eyes, grinning from ear to ear as he threw down the condom and the lube somewhere on the bed. "More for me, then," he mumbled, licking my slick off his fingers as he kept his gaze on me-- it didn't take long before he pushed me back down on the bed, unbuttoning the last of his buttons with ease I could never match. 

My heart had probably never worked this hard before in my life. "Rome," I tried, watching him discard his shirt. Fuck-- he was gorgeous. I could feel myself blushing in an instant, shamelessly looking him up and down; I knew he didn't mind. Why was I reacting like this? Roman being breathtakingly handsome wasn't news? "I think... I think--"

"You're still thinking?" Roman's hands gripped my waist as he leaned down, kissing up my torso as I whimpered beneath him, reaching for his hair again. "Stop thinking. No thinking."

"No thinking?" I echoed, giggling as his eager kisses reached my neck, getting ticklish. "You're asking for too much." Now that he was finally close again, I draped my arms around him, trailing my fingers across his broad shoulders with a sigh. Being skin-to-skin like this was my favorite thing in the world-- being connected.

Roman hummed, his erection once again pressing into my lower abdomen. "Either you stop thinking of your own volition..." he said, pulling my chest up against his. "... Or I'll have to fuck your brains out. Your choice."

I shivered, feeling my mind start buzzing. That was a damn easy choice. "That sounds rough," I mumbled, my breath hitching as Roman pressed a kiss to my ear. "You said you'd be gentle..." To be completely honest, this was the part I was nervous about-- would he maybe not be able to be? I was a little scared he'd be like one of those horror-story guys Letha had told me she'd been with, one of those guys that just slap you all of a sudden or start choking you cause they've seen it in porn and think that's normal behavior. 

Roman pulled away, hovering barely an inch above my lips; his breath grazed my cheek, and the green of his eyes were glazed over with a look of confusion. "Am I not being just that?" he asked, nodding to the candle.

Oh-- I turned to the supposed funeral candle. 

It allowed a sweet kiss to my cheek, the tip of his upturned nose pressing into my cheekbone; "Trust me. I wouldn't want to hurt you, you know me,"

He was right-- from the very first moment we got together, he had told me just that.

Still, it was only when I felt Roman's lips against mine with the softest of pressures, that I pushed my concerns away. It was the sort of kiss that made my heart burn, the sort of kiss that made my hands trail up into his hair to keen him closer. I pushed all my thoughts of horror into a heap, churned it in my mental grinder, processed it, and allowed the product of it to slip past my lips; "I want you," I breathed, feeling myself grow needy against him.

Roman hummed, a small roll of his hips onto mine following-- I didn't expect it to make my breath catch in my chest. "I want you too," 

Something in me ignited; I wanted him to do that again. Disoriented, I reached down for the zipper of his jeans, moaning into the kiss that followed. "Want you more," 

Roman smiled; "Not possible," 

At this moment, I was thankful to be made up of solid matter-- if not, I was sure I'd have melted straight into the bed, a puddle of pure horny. I wasn't sure when Roman lost his pants, too consumed in the kiss to function. My state of arousal only heightened when my hips bucked up, feeling the hard outline of his cock between my legs; I was suddenly reminded of the time we did something similar in an alleyway on our first day. But this was different-- this was a direct contact of his clothed length brushing up against my clit with repeating strokes, a motion which had my breath hitching as my nails dug into his shoulders.

Roman let out a soft groan, nipping at my neck as he ground down against me. "This," he breathed. "This is what you do to me. I wanna be in you so fucking bad."

With the next roll of his hips, I whimpered; the buzzing of my mind refused to still. "Have me, then," was all I managed to say, tugging at Roman's hair as the tips of my fingers burned.

What followed happened so fast, I barely registered it. I heard the ripping of the silver wrapping in the midst of our heated kiss, adrenaline and dopamine coursing through my veins as every little sweet word rolling off Roman's tongue filled me with that familiar warm feeling I always got around him.

For this, it was all worth it. All the drama with Letha, all the tears, all the pain-- it was all worth it. 

"You're everything," Roman whispered, rubbing the head of his cock along my soaked sex as my hands skimmed the muscular range of his back. "You're my everything, do you know that?"

God, how I wanted to be one with him. Wanted him in my head, wanted him in me, wanted to melt into him and become one single entity, never to part. From the first moment I met him, from the first moment I laid eyes on him in class, from the first moment he smiled at me, I knew it was Roman. It would always be Roman, it would always, always be Roman for me, and knowing he thought the same of me as well, that I was his everything-- all my longing, everything, had been worth it. Because I was his everything too, finally, just like he had always been mine. 

However, as Roman angled his cock and gently pushed the head in, kissing my cheek with the sweetest touch, I didn't expect the painful, sharp sting-- I wasn't sure how loudly I gasped, how far my nails dug into his back, but I was really damn certain that this hurt. 

Roman was out of me within the blink of a second; "Shit," he breathed, a panicked look in his eyes. "Should've-- Should've warned you."

The sting remained as I did my best to breathe through it. "That's a stretch," was all I managed to say, stroking over where I had scraped his back. 

"I'll take that as a compliment," Roman mumbled, scanning me. He didn't seem bothered by the crescent moons my nails were leaving behind. "You okay?"

"Yeah..."

He cursed under his breath, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead. "I forgot about this part... My brain doesn't work when you're naked," Roman sighed, reaching for one of the hands I had on his back. "If you want to go on, I might know a way to make it a little easier."

I met his eyes as he brought the back of my hand to his lips; "I guess it's supposed to hurt a little, Roman, just... just do what you usually do, I trust you," Maybe I needed to push through it? I could take a little pain, couldn't I? That was until I remembered the pain again-- it made me clench. Ouch.

With a certain look I knew too well, he shook his head as he now wrapped his fingers around my wrist. "No. It's not supposed to hurt," he said. "And I said I wouldn't hurt you, so..." Roman trailed my hand down along my body, watching as my eyes widened. "In my experience, it helps if you... help."

"Help?"

"Help yourself, so to speak," Roman purred, his signature cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Cause I doubt this will be your first time doing this."

"Doing what?-- Oh," As he placed my hand over my sex, he slid two fingers above mine, guiding me to rub my clit. Roman was right; it wasn't my first time doing that to myself. Still, this was a different feeling-- My hips immediately bucked up into our hands, and when Roman leaned down to kiss me, I knew I was done for. 

Everything felt warm, everything felt right. "Just keep doing that," he whispered, sinking his teeth into my lower lip. "Wanna?-- Again?"

Roman didn't need to use more words than that; I knew what he meant. I nodded, feeling my cheeks redden at the fact that I was touching myself in front of him like this-- however, I didn't have time to think much about it.

Soon, I wasn't the only one touching myself, anyway.

"Should've used this from the start," Roman mumbled, cursing under his breath as he poured a dash of lube on his cock from the clear bottle nearby. "Got too excited... fuck." With a lazy grip, he wrapped his hand around his length, spreading the lube with slow strokes. 

My mind was buzzing. I watched as Roman's lips parted, a shaky breath escaping him. "It's okay," I tried, rubbing mindless circles around my clit. "It's just me."

"Yeah, and I care about you," Roman's eyes were halfway closed as they met mine, darkened with growing lust. "Ready?"

I nodded-- yeah.

This time, when Roman's cock pushed into me again with the slowest of strokes, the pleasure from my clit dulled the sting. The only thing left to adjust to was the stretch; my breath hitched as my free hand went back up into his hair, wincing against his lips as his thick length stroked me open. 

Roman cursed as his parted lips hovered above mine. He held me tightly against his body, watching out for any signs of discomfort before he spoke; "Shit... This feels better than I--thought," 

My head rolled back against the duvet, breathing against Roman with small heaves. "Rome," I whimpered. "Fuck, this is--" I didn't expect the feeling, didn't expect the tips of my fingers to burn more as I grasped at his hair, didn't expect the way my whole body reacted-- it was different from anything else I had ever felt or thought I could feel. Being filled up by Roman was...

It was everything.

Everything I had ever dreamed of. 

It felt good, it felt right-- I moaned, clenching at the feeling of his cock slowly sinking into me at a steady pace, my body aching with love. This was as gentle as I bet anything like this could possibly be, and I squirmed a bit beneath him, adjusting to the feeling of having his cock inside of me. 

Roman let out a shaky breath, containing the urge to pound into my warmth like I supposed he usually would. "Hurts?"

"No, no-- Ah," 

With his next thrust, Roman kissed up my jaw, keeping every stroke careful. "Want me to put it in all the way?"

"The-- There is more?"

"Baby..." he breathed, containing a choked laugh. "I'm only halfway in."

I was sure I was about to faint. How the fuck?-- No, I couldn't think clearly in this state. No more thinking. I decided to trust him; I knew Roman would pull back if it hurt, anyway. "Okay... Let's try,"

As Roman pushed in more of his length, the quiet moan escaping him blended in with my string of panicked whimpers. I didn't even know I had space inside me for more-- my eyes sprung open, my legs giving into a tremble. "Rome, I-- a-ah, this is--"

"Shh, look at me, breathe," Roman brought his hand to my face, guiding me to look into his eyes. His voice was soft, caring; "You okay? Is this too much?"

The shock was the thing that had gotten to me, I was sure of it. Because after a few more deep strokes, a few tighter circles around my clit, my fear eased as I realized this was a sensation I would be chasing for the rest of my life.

"Feels good?" Roman asked, his voice nearly breaking-- I imagined it was hard to not give in to the pleasure of the tight embrace around his cock.

Still, I could only nod, twisting my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him towards me to smother him with a heated rush of my lips against his, moaning into the kiss as I pulled my hand from between my legs-- it was starting to brink the line of overstimulation. 

"Good," Roman muttered against my mouth. 

The kiss didn't last too long; my shock was still coming and going in waves. "I'm-- we're having sex," I blurted out, my cheeks flaring red. The truth was hitting me like a blow to the head. The thing I had dreamed about since the first day I laid eyes on him was actually happening.

Roman contained a laugh, looking rather endeared by my realization; "Yeah, you're doing it, you're having sex... I'd give you a high five, but-- hah, that wouldn't work,"

Why were we laughing? Why was this... fun?

Caught between the fire in my chest, the twinge of humor, and the ache pulsing low between my legs, I whimpered as I realized I wanted-- no, needed more. Still, a small, meek call of his name was all I managed to stutter out.

Roman shifted, pushing my body so that my knees were bent at his sides; "Speak your mind," 

How was I supposed to conjure a cohesive sentence in this state? "I want-- you, more--"

"We're going-- hah, back to that?" 

"Not that! More, Rome-- just, more, I need--"

He let out a breathy moan, smiling back down at me; he knew exactly what I meant. "Thank God," Roman's cock filled me over and over, his thrusts growing harder, faster as he found a steady pace to rock into me. "You're taking me so good, aren't you?"

My head felt like it was spinning. This couldn't be real. I couldn't possibly be as lucky as to finally sleep with Roman Godfrey. 

His voice brought me back; "You're doing so well," he murmured, burying his face into the crook of my neck, muffling a quiet moan against my skin. It was the most magical of sounds-- my heart was threatening to beat out of my chest, and I was sure the warmth of skin against mine probably helped with the overheating of my brain. "Doing so, so well for me... I've wanted you like this for so long."

"Me too," I breathed, my hips keening to take his thrusts. "Wanted you-- since forever."

My words only seemed to reel him on; Roman hips snapped harder into me as I whimpered. "Forever?" 

"Forever-- a-ah,"

Something in Roman's breathing changed. It was almost as though I could read his thoughts, feel his new reality form. Was it maybe the last push he needed to believe I was his till death? That there was a person out there walking this earth, breathing the same air, that could possibly want to be with him for an eternity? "Forever," he breathed, latching onto my neck with repeated needy kisses in an attempt to drown out the noises threatening to spill past his lips. "You and-- and I, forever."

As Roman's cock repeatedly pushed into me, I could only whimper; the stretch was still something to get used to, and my nails bit into his back as I tried to steady myself. "Forever," I managed to breathe out, hearing him moan into my neck at the sharpness of my nails against his back-- I knew he'd like that. I knew Roman too damn well. 

"Forever," he echoed, breath washing warm against my ear as he raised himself, his cheek nuzzling mine in an intimate embrace. 

I clenched around the girth of his cock, shivering. This was so unbelievably sweet, nothing I had ever expected from him. Roman was so much taller, and his broad build served as a comforting weight through the wave of new pleasure my body tried to comprehend. With the next surge of love washing over my chest, the next pump of Roman's cock, I felt my chin give in to an involuntary quiver as I gripped him tighter. 

It was at this moment that it truly dawned on me;

I loved him. 

I loved Roman Godfrey.

Tears swarmed my eyes as one of my hands went up into his soft hair, hoping he'd take it as an urging for him to kiss me again. I didn't want to have a chance to talk, to blurt it out and scare him away-- which is why, when Roman shifted and crashed his lips against mine, I only felt relief. 

I was safe. I was cared for. And damn, I felt good. 

However, what I hadn't expected, was for the shift of angle to brush past a spot inside of me I had only ever felt when Roman's fingers curled into me. But this was far greater, far more stimulating-- I let out a choked moan against Roman's lips, my eyes springing open as my head tilted back into the duvet, heaving for air as my legs gave in to a tremble. 

I didn't have to look up at him to know the exact look on his face, yet I dared to take a peek; he was too hot to resist. And there it was, those parted, perfect lips paired with that dark look in his green eyes of victory. This is exactly what he had wanted to reduce me to all along, wasn't it? Roman's hair had never been this messed up (courtesy of my hands), and the sheer look of it nearly made my heart swell. "Good tears?" he asked with a whisper, scanning the look in my eyes.

Fuck, yeah. I could only nod. 

Knowing Roman, I was wondering when he'd-- oh, hello, you. I was waiting for the eventual switch. A man like Roman Godfrey couldn't stay sweet forever. 

At the sight of my tears, I knew something new in him ignited. He placed a hand over my mouth, placing more of his weight on me as his other hand pulled me tighter against him, the wet snaps of his cock pushing into me growing louder as I moaned out against his palm. "Listen to this," he purred, a sinister smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he made me listen to the sound of our union. "This is sex, you're damn right. This is what you'll be craving from me." 

God-- I squeezed my eyes shut, the continuous push of the tip of Roman's cock against my sweet spot inside sending my brain into a frenzy. 

"I get why you've been reserved... You'll never be who you were before this again," With a grunt, the next snap of his hips only grew harder, knowing I could take it and adjust. It certainly didn't help the tremble of my body. "Gonna get you fucking addicted to this feeling. To me. Cause you've given yourself to me now, do you-- do you realize that?"

My wet lashes fluttered as I slowly dared to open my eyes, my heart thumping harder than ever before. If only he knew how addicted I already was. 

"This is it," Roman breathed, the green hues of his gaze engulfing me; "This is us. This is you. This is who you are from now on. My girl... Only mine. Forever. Gonna help you cum on this cock, okay? Gonna give you the first time you deserve, h-hah--"

Something about the look in his eyes unnerved me, despite the hot nature of his words-- What? There were many ways for him to make me cum, surely, but the second my fingers started numbing up, my mind started flaring red with a passage from my most hated book;

The upir's ability to mesmerize is an ancient and powerful form of psychic influence, capable of bending a victim's will. This control often manifests subtly, with suggestions that feel like one's own thoughts. If one is being mesmerized by a upir, it is often accompanied by a stilling of one's inner monologue, or a numbing sensation. Prolonged exposure can lead to disorientation, memory lapses, and a gradual erosion of autonomy. The key to resisting lies in anchoring oneself to reality—through pain, strong emotions, or focusing on a meaningful object. Beware: once under an upir's thrall, distinguishing truth from illusion becomes a perilous challenge.

Beware. 

Beware.

The last time my fingers had numbed up like this, was the time Roman forced me to tell him what had happened between Jasmine and I. It felt like the autonomy of my thoughts evaporated, seeped out of my ears, and disappeared into Roman's grasp. 

However, at this moment right now, this moment of blinding pleasure and complete rapture of my soul and love, I wanted nothing more but this. I knew I wasn't being mesmerized of course, because upirs weren't real-- but as Roman kept my face still and my eyes on him, it felt like it. It was almost like I heard him telling me to cum. A few more thrusts were all it took, the complete transfixion of Roman's unnaturally dilated pupils swallowing me as I only saw green, green, green-- his hand quickly left my mouth to hear me cry out, a choked moan escaping me as the fear toppled me. This was an orgasm unlike anything else I had experienced, and I felt myself pulse around Roman's length, practically milking his cock as I struggled to grapple with the most intense climax of my life. "Fuck-- Fuck!" I whimpered, my nails digging further into his back as tears welled in my eyes. 

The mere sight of it was enough for Roman to nearly buckle over, and I was ripped out of the trance, heaving for air as he spilled into the condom, teeth grazing my shoulder as he tried to bite back his moans of pleasure, hips keening into my tight warmth. 

I slowly slid my hands off Roman's broad back, realizing we had both dripped sweat onto each other's skin as I hoped my breath would soon go back to normal. My body ached in a way it had never ached before, and I winced as Roman eventually pulled out of me with a sigh. 

There was a long moment after he rolled off of me where we simply gazed at each other. I watched the heave of his chest, the way his brown hair laid over his dangerous green eyes, and wondered how on earth I had been so lucky as to have him fall for me too.

However, suddenly, amid my awe, a small droplet of blood gathered at Roman's nose. To my surprise, he was completely unbothered. The look in his eyes told me he had an inkling this would happen, and it further confused me.

I leaned forward to wipe away the blood pooling at his upper lip with my thumb. "You're bleeding," I echoed, aware that I was stating the obvious.

Roman's eyes softened; "Are you, though?"

"... What do you mean?"

Shifting, he wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer as his other hand slid between my legs, sliding a finger against the wetness of my sex as I squirmed, a short giggle escaping me as I nuzzled up against him. Roman then scanned his finger as I continued to wipe away the stream of blood coming from his nose, watching as it smeared against his cheek. He hummed; "You didn't bleed. At least that's good?"

"I guess?"

Roman kissed my bloodied thumb, a shaky breath escaping him at the taste of the iron; "How was that for you? You okay?"

If only he knew. "You were great," I purred, nipping at his jaw. "It was lovely, Rome."

He let out a breath; "Thank fuck," Roman murmured, visibly relieved. "And you were really damn sweet. I knew those fuck-me eyes would be the death of me... Sorry if it got a little intense at the end, there."

"No, no, that was-- fuck, that was so hot,"

Roman smiled. My sweet boy. Another kiss; "But now, there's one thing I wanted to do." He propped himself up on his elbow, and I closed my eyes as he made sure I laid with my back against the bed-- I was too tired to focus. The ache between my legs refused to subside, making me worried about the state of my thighs tomorrow. They better not fucking cramp up with every step, similar to the day after a hard session at the gym.

And just as I was about to ask him to return to me, to stop doing whatever the fuck he was doing, I suddenly felt a warm, slick substance drip onto my lower abdomen. With a gasp, I snapped out of my drowsiness, only to be met with the sight of Roman holding the condom above my stomach with a devilish grin, letting the content pour down on me.

He chuckled at the sight of my widened eyes, my speechless state-- "Didn't manage to cum here, as I said... so this will do,"

"Roman, for fuck's sake!" 

"What? You look good with my cum all over!--"

"Roman!"

"Fine!" he huffed. "Gonna go grab some wipes, I'll be right back. Anything else you need? Water?"

I wondered whether Roman realized how sweet he was being-- I glanced over at the candle flickering in the moonlight, the vial of my blood lying neatly next to it. The sight made my heart swell; God, how I loved him. It killed me that he couldn't know. I knew he'd run in the other direction if he did. "Water would be nice," I breathed, watching as Roman got dressed again. 

It all hit me like a wave, now;

The first time I got my heart broken, I had been at fault. 

The first time I got a black eye, I had swung the first punch.

But the first time I had sex? It had thankfully been with the man I loved. Still, I was sure the cosmic imbalance would catch up to me again and drag me back down into the dirt soon enough. 

But not right now.

Not right now.

Here, I was safe with Roman. The universe couldn't get me now, no-- not with the equivalent of the moon lying next to me. He had returned to me in no time, holding me close in his nearly immediate slumber after having lent me a shirt of his to sleep in. The cosmos wouldn't dare to touch me now. 

I adjusted the cover on top of us, kissing Roman's forehead; "Are you sleeping?" I whispered, poking his cheek with the gentlest of touches. 

No response. Phew. 

And just as I started to fade into sleep as well, I ran my thumb across the softness of his cheek. I connected our foreheads with a content sigh before I pressed my lips against his in a loving kiss. Roman looked so peaceful-- the universe wouldn't dare to take me now, wouldn't dare to wake him up. 

"I love you," I whispered like I would be put to death if I awoke him. With one last glance at the candle, my heavy lids fluttered as my heart cried;

"I love you,"

(a/n: thank you SO MUCH for reading this monster of a chapter!!<33 if you've made it all the way down here, all the other chapters are listed on my main page if you're interested!!<33 MWAH)

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[elleaitch22]

Terms of Endearment

Chapter 12: Not for Show

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: Azzi Jazlyn Fudd is the best person on the planet. She motivated me to write instead of go to the pool and tan. Please ignore any errors! As always, I hope you love it! xx Elle

Warnings: Emotional abuse, psychological abuse, manipulation, low self-worth, panic attacks

Word Count: 5.3k words

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“Can you tell me what the dinner’s for?” Azzi questioned, knowing she’d be more confident and comfortable if she had a little background information.

Paige looked at her quickly. Azzi’s knee was bouncing anxiously. Paige reached, cupping her knee gently. Smiling when the movement stopped, she answered. “The Houser Foundation is having an appreciation dinner for their investors. Very lowkey, it’ll be like thirty people there. And they’re good people.”

“What does the foundation do?” Azzi’s eyes traced the veins beneath the pale skin.

“It’s a nonprofit. Takes in battered women and children, gives them a place to stay for however long they need, and they provide lawyers to them so they can get divorces, restraining orders, custody – anything they need.” Paige listed, stopping the car.

They were in front of Nobu, a restaurant Azzi had only seen on social media.

She grabbed Paige’s wrist before she could open her door. “I think it’s really great that you’re supporting a cause like that.”

The blonde’s cheeks tinted a little, a cute, closed-mouth smile appeared for a split second before both doors are opened. Paige hands her keys to the valet, walking around to Azzi to help her out of the car and guide her into the restaurant.

Azzi teetered on her heels as they got to the elevator. A deep sigh fell from her lips as she ran her hands over her hair.

“I don’t understand how you do this so much,” She breathed. “How do you make sure you keep it all together?”

Paige stepped closer to her, “I remember that none of these people matter. The only people I worry about impressing are the people in my family. They’ll love me whether I make small talk and close a deal or if I come home broke. You don’t owe these people anything. Just relax and go with the flow.”

Azzi stared into hypnotic blue eyes, listening to everything she said, ready to do whatever she’d asked.

“Remember the rules, Az. Ask me if you need help or a break. I won’t be mad.” Paige’s voice was firm, quiet but not commanding.

She couldn’t reply, not even a nod, before the elevator doors were opening.

The rooftop at Nobu was beautiful. In downtown Chicago, it had a perfect view of the expansive skyline, making it easy to feel like you were on top of the world.

The vibe was completely different than the one at the Children’s Hospital Gala, and Azzi was grateful. There weren’t fifty photographers scrambling to get a shot. There weren’t people standing around with champagne making small talk. The atmosphere was calm and warm. Instead of intricate centerpieces, there were small plants with a few candles on each table. Chairs were wicker sofas and arms chairs with soft cushions. There was a string quartet in the corner, deepening the intimate feel. There was no seating chart, no place cards, like everyone invited would like each other.

A breath Azzi was unaware she was holding was breathed out quietly.

Paige turned to her, smiling softly, “Not so bad, right?” Her hand was low on Azzi’s back, guiding her further into the space.

An older woman comes up, eyes happy to see Paige. “Hi, baby. I missed you.” She pulled her into a tight hug and dropped a loud kiss to her cheek.

“Katie,” Paige whined, wiping her cheek. “Katie, this is Azzi. Azzi, this is my stepmom, Katie Houser Bueckers.”

Azzi’s eyes widened a bit. She didn’t think she’d be meeting her blood relatives. “Houser, like the Houser Foundation?” Her brows furrowed.

“It’s nice to meet you, Azzi.” Katie giggled, lightly.

Azzi’s eyes dropped to the floor. Asking a question like that instead of replying to the introduction was so fucking rude. I should–

Before she could get too deep into her self-deprecating spiral, there was a light squeeze on the back of her neck.

Paige.

She was trying to reassure her, calm her down.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bueckers. It’s really nice to meet you.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the blonde. “Paige didn’t tell me it was her family’s foundation.”

Katie scoffed. “It’s not ours, it’s hers. She just didn’t want her name on it.” She paused. “Or run it, I guess. She left that to me.”

Azzi turned to the taller woman. She huffed quietly at the way Paige was avoiding eye contact.

“Well, I think we’re going to go find a seat somewhere.” Paige rushed out, already leading Azzi away from her stepmother.

“Don’t forget to let the photographer get a picture!” Katie called after them.

Paige looked a little like a kicked puppy, but Azzi hadn’t noticed.

Why wouldn’t Paige have told her she was going to be meeting her family tonight? Was she worried I’d panic? Was she ashamed?

“I – I’m gonna go find a restroom.” Azzi shot up from the table, not listening for a response.

Her steps were even and controlled.

She would not embarrass Paige more than she already had. She focused, looking for signage or a clue about where she could go to collect herself.

Bingo.

The bathrooms at Nobu were just as nice as the rest of the building. Azzi gripped the edge of the sink tightly, forcing her breaths to come calmly.

She couldn’t do this. She didn’t belong in this world, and soon, everyone would know just how much of a fraud she really was.

She was too busy spiraling to notice someone following her into the bathroom. She didn’t realize until the door was locked behind them.

Azzi froze.

“Azzi,” her name is breathed out quietly.

Not Grant. Azzi thinks to herself. She turned to Paige, eyes mistrusting. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your foundation? Why didn’t you give me a heads up about meeting your family?”

“I should’ve told you, I know. I had a plan to tell you this morning and let you grill me about them all day; thought that would make you more relaxed, but I forgot.” Paige’s hand went to the back of her neck nervously. “I was focused on the rules and completely blanked after that. That’s my fault. I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “I just feel unprepared. Or like I’ll embarrass you in front of your family. They’re gonna see right through it, and everything will be ruined.”  The words came out quickly, breathing picking up.

“I know, and I’m so–”

“I need help.” Azzi said, palms starting to sweat.

Paige was behind her in a heartbeat. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m going to fuck it all up, and I’m scared.” Azzi whispered shakily.

“Azzi, you’re perfect.” She paused, “You’re not here to impress anyone, family or not. I just want you to be yourself. Azzi Fudd is more than enough exactly how she is.”

Paige’s hand wrapped around her waist, pulling Azzi into her chest. The blonde’s deep breaths pushed against Azzi’s back, a gentle reminded for her to slow her breathing.

“But your family– ” Azzi started.

“Will love you because I’m the happiest I’ve been in a while.” She cut her off, smiling gently.

Paige’s hands rubbed up her arms, landing on her shoulders.

“I don’t belong here.” Her voice still wavered, only a little now.

“You belong wherever I am.” Paige’s tone left no room for rebuttal. “Say it, Azzi.”

The brunette’s eyes widened, meeting the blue ones in the mirror.

“You belong here, Azzi. With me. Say it.” Paige urged. “Now.” The command was soft, but effective.

“I belong here.” Azzi breathed out.

A brown brow lifted in expectation.

“I belong wherever you are, Paige.”

A satisfied smile stretched across Paige’s lips. “Very good.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

I was right. Paige thought to herself, watching Azzi mingle with the other guests. People had gravitated to her like she was the sun. Katie had taken her under her wing, introducing her to everyone, while also providing some protection.

“You didn’t tell us you had a girlfriend, P.” A low voice came from behind her.

Her lips lifted in a smirk, “What’s up, Pops?” They embraced quickly before turning back to the two radiant women. “Stuff like this makes her anxious. I hadn’t gotten her permission yet.”

“Permission, huh?” His brows lifted. “So, it’s serious?”

Paige was quiet, she didn’t want to keep lying to her dad, but she didn’t want to look suspicious either. “I think it will be. The crew loves her. Soleil is obsessed with her.”

“And she’s good? Safe?” He questioned.

Paige was lucky to have a father who cared as much as he did, even though she was old and grown.

“She’s amazing, Pops. She’s kind and patient. I have never heard her yell. She’s smart. She’s just so good.”

Bob Bueckers was happy. In the 27 years Paige had been on the planet, he had never heard her talk about someone like that. “Well, that’s good. I hope she’s here to stay then.”

He walked away from his daughter, going to meet the girl who’d stolen her heart.

Paige waited for Azzi to be alone again before she made her way back over to her.

“How you doing, superstar?” She nudged her, gently.

Azzi’s face lit up, “I was wondering where you were. You left me all alone.”

“You looked comfortable, and I knew Katie wasn’t going to let anyone say or do anything to you.” She gently cupped one tanned cheek. “I’m proud of you. You’re going a great job.”

Azzi’s cheeks turned a nice shade of pink, and she looked so cute that Paige couldn’t help herself. A quick kiss was planted on her forehead.

“I need to go make a call really quickly. Will you be good here?” Paige asked, leaning back.

The brunette blinked hard. “I – Yeah, I’ll be good. I can finally eat.” She quickly sat down.

Paige walked to the backside of the terrace; the only place she’d be able to get some silence. She dialed the number quickly, breath coming out a little shaky.

“What’s good, Twin?” The faint Croatian accent in her words.

Paige sighed deeply, “I caught feelings, like real feelings.”

“I thought we already knew this,” Her pitch rose on the last word, almost like it was a question.

“No,” Paige groaned, running a hand down her face. “I knew that I wanted her. Like she’d be perfect to fuck, and that she’d be good for Soleil if she stuck around.”

The Croatian was silent, which wasn’t a good sign for Paige. “Pause. You thought that Azzi Fudd was going to be good for you to fuck and keep on the side?”

Paige rolled her eyes at the way she’d been thinking a week ago, “Aye bro, don’t blame me. I literally have never felt like this about a girl. Ever.”

“What makes her so special, P?” Nika challenges.

“What?”

Nika sighed, “If you can’t tell me what makes her special, you probably shouldn’t be going after her.”

Paige went silent, trying to compile her thoughts in a way that would make sense.

“Azzi’s like chocolate chip cookies.”

“Poetic,” Nika started, and Paige could hear the furrow in her brow. “Wanna explain that?”

Paige gave a slow smile, but didn’t look away from the glass. “She’s sweet. Warm. Familiar in a way that makes you want to breathe deeper, even though I haven’t known her that long. Comforting. Like, you don’t even realize how tense you are until she smiles at you.”

Nika stayed quiet now, letting her continue.

“It reminds me of times when Katie would have fresh cookies waiting for me when I got home from practice. It reminds me of being safe. Of being soft. That’s her. She’s sweetness with just enough edge to be interesting. Like the chocolate’s a little dark, the dough’s still warm in the center. You can’t just have one moment with her. You want more.”

Nika hummed into the receiver, not saying anything, but letting Paige know she was listening.

Paige swallowed roughly, “That’s what Azzi feels like. I don’t know how to hold that. I’m scared I’ll burn it. She’s still healing, maybe just starting. I don’t want to push her, make her feel like it’s forced.”

“Do you think staying in this fake thing is gonna help her?” Nika didn’t give her time to respond. “You’re probably confusing her more than anything; trying to figure out what’s real and fake seems exhausting. She will probably make herself think nothing’s real until you say it.”

“I don’t know what to do. How to make her see it’s real.” Paige muttered, the creases on her loafers becoming much more interesting.

A scoff came through her phone, “Stop pouting.”

“I –“

“I can hear it in your voice, Bueckers.” Nika sighed, “You’re giving her structure, and that’s good. But it’s a fake foundation. If you want to build something with her, something that will last, you have to be real with her. Stop hiding.”

Paige nodded, “Okay. Yeah, okay. I can do that.” She wanted to ask her sister to help her plan a date or something, but she’d already been gone for five minutes, and didn’t want to leave Azzi completely abandoned. “Thanks, Nik. I gotta go though. See you tomorrow?”

The brunette hung up and Paige made her way back to the dinner.

She spent the rest of the night mingling with other attendees with Azzi on her arm. Four different times, Paige was lectured about how amazing was and how she couldn’t let her slip away.

On the way home, Azzi’s cheeks were still pink, and her doe were bright with glee.

“I told you, you belong there.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi had a spread of breakfast pastries, fruit, sausage, and bacon laid out on her kitchen countertops. She was cursing herself for not thinking of having more than apple juice and oat milk when a knock sounded at the door.

Today, Ice, Jana, and KK were coming over to help her set up her apartment. Azzi couldn’t remember the last time she had friends come over, even if the girls were only coming to help her get set up. She may have gone overboard with all the food, but she wanted to make sure everyone had things they liked.

Azzi cleared the negative thoughts about herself from her head. It was number two on today’s list.

1. Set up apartment with the girls 2. Be kind to yourself 3. Lunch with P and S 4. Ten minutes outside (get sunlight) 5. Stay hydrated

It was her first day with a real list from Paige, but it didn’t seem too tough. She’d already completed four and five. She drank two glasses of water while she ran through a ten-minute stretch outside. Though the goals weren’t hard, Azzi was a little proud of her progress.

Another knock broke her out of her trance. She put the note back on the fridge and moved to the door.

“Hey y’all!” KK said, walking into the apartment like she owned it. She was empty-handed as she plucked a few pieces of sausage and a Danish from the spread.

Jana and Ice came in, each rolling a wagon full of paint and supplies. “Hey girl.” Ice started. “KK stop being a pig!” She rolled her eyes.

Azzi moved to take out one of the drop cloths to set up.

“Um, what are you doing?” Jana called from a bar stool.

Azzi blushed, “Oh, I was just gonna start setting everything up.”

KK’s sausage dropped back to her plate. “Girl boo. You better come eat with us.”

Azzi smiled softly, walking back to the kitchen. She hadn’t had friends to fuss over her in over five years.

She stood at the end of the counter, grabbing a few pieces of fruit here and there. She broke the ice by asking one of the most basic questions. “How’d you get into your work?”

Jana spoke first, excited to go first. “I used to draw these outfits on mannequins and send them to all these different companies.

“Oh! That’s really cool! Which company are you working for now?” Azzi questioned.

Giggles broke out among the girls, and Azzi was left looking around like she’d said something wrong. “Sorry, it’s just nobody gave me a chance, and these two heard all about it. Paige was invited to this awards ceremony though, and everyone wanted to dress her. She told them she wasn’t working with anybody who had declined my designs.”

“P. Boogers is the sweetest,” KK chimed in.

“Yeah, so the only group who hadn’t sent my stuff back was Kid Super. I’ve been working with him since that summer. And now, I can do my work from anywhere.” Jana reached to place her hand on Azzi’s, “Best decision ever.”

“And with me,” Ice said, moving to stand in front of KK, “I’ve always designed our space. I would make a sample board with a list of stuff we needed, Paige would get it, and everywhere we've lived has been gorgeous.”

“Wait, y’all all live together?” Azzi could have sworn everybody had their own space.

KK’s head popped out. “Nah, but me and Ice share penthouse 7. Nika and her boyfriend are in 4, and Jana is in 6. Ice did design all ours, so you’ll officially be in the family once yours is done.”

“She wasn’t even talking to you, KK.” Ice rolled her eyes. “When Paige bought Aurelia, she asked me to redesign everything before she opened it back up to the public. Now, anytime she has a client with Kairos, I get to design something as a part of their rebrand.”

Azzi nodded, filing the information away. She turned to KK expectantly.

“My story isn’t as cute as theirs. I got my bachelor’s in accounting and my MBA. After I graduated, I could get hired anywhere in town. So, Paige made me VP of the Houser Foundation so I wouldn’t have to move back home.”

Azzi looked at all three women, brows furrowed. “Did Paige tell you all to say things to make her look good?”

They all burst into laughter and launched into story times about how annoying Paige was. Apparently, she had a nasty pranking streak, and only one person had ever gotten her back.

“Amari hid in this big ass box and popped out when Paige came into the apartment. She screamed so loud the camera didn’t even pick it up!”

And even though they were telling ‘bad’ stories about Paige and each other, they were mainly just silly. Azzi could see how much they all loved each other, and how much they adored Paige.

“Paige is the grumpiest person in the morning, but every year during Ramadan, she wakes up at 4 a.m. to make sure I had suhoor before classes or workouts.”

The quartet talked about any and everything. They melted when they saw the room Azzi had set aside for Soleil’s afterschool/homeschool routine. They painted a giant sun on one wall and a sunset on the other. There was a small table with crayons, markers, colored pencils, and an assortment of glitter and glitter pens. A bookshelf lined the wall by the door, already full of some of the girl’s favorites. Bean bags laid on the floor, ready for Azzi to break them in.

It was such s nice room.

Soleil’s room was the only one in Azzi’s house that felt complete.

They painted and yapped until it was lunch time. Azzi had to go upstairs to Paige and Soleil, so the rest of the crew went home.

On the elevator ride to penthouse 8, Azzi smiled to herself. It was nice having friends again.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Maison Noire was quieter than usual — elegant as ever, but calmer in the way that suited conversation more than spectacle. Paige had reserved the same table they used for the gala pre-dinner. She did it on purpose, though she hadn’t yet told Azzi why.

Like the last time, Azzi was intentional about what she chose to wear. She needed to look alluring, like she could afford the be a guest there. She decided on a fitted satin dress. The red fabric draped across her figure, hinting at her shape without putting it on display for all to see. There was a slit that ended high on her leg. Her feet were encased in sky high golden stilettos, and she chuckled realizing she’d be taller than Paige. Gold hoops and a simple ‘A’ chain decorated her ears and throat nicely. Her hair was out tonight, leaving it down for the first time they’d come.

Azzi, meanwhile, was quiet. Not withdrawn, but waiting — bracing.

The waiter set down drinks. A sparkling elderflower lemonade for Azzi. Dirty Shirley for Paige.

"You didn’t order for me this time," Azzi said softly.

Paige smiled. "Figured you’d want to choose."

Azzi looked down at the table. “You’ve been… different.”

Paige studied her. “Different how?”

“Softer. More real. I don’t know what tonight’s about, but…” Her throat tightened. “You’re scaring me.”

Before Paige could respond, Azzi’s phone buzzed on the table. 703 area code.

“You can ignore it,” Paige said gently.

Azzi stared at the screen. “It’s a Virginia area might be my family.”

She answered.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. Then:

“Took you long enough, sweetheart.”

Azzi’s entire body stilled.

“You playing house with your new sugar momma? You look like a whore in that dress.”

Her shoulders curled inward. Paige’s eyes sharpened, locked on her.

“Tell me. Does she know yet? Does she know what a filthy, needy little thing you really are?”

Azzi’s hand and lip trembled. Paige reached out and took the phone, slowly but without hesitation.

She pressed it to her ear. Didn't say a word.

Grant kept talking.

“She’ll figure it out, you know. Just like I did. You’ll fuck it up. She’ll get tired of fixing you, and when she leaves, you can come crawling back. That’s all you are, Azzi. A project. You don't get love. You don’t deserve it. You get pity.”

Paige stood. Her face was neutral. Cold. Dead calm.

She walked a few feet away from the table and let the words sit between her and the phone before she spoke. Then, she spoke.

“If you ever call her again, I will fucking bury you.” Tone deadly.

There was a pause.

“Not with a lawsuit. Not with an interview with a magazine. I will break you piece by piece. I will buy your debt, your name, your silence. I will make sure you owe me the rest of your life.”

“You think you’re smart, Grant? I’m smarter. I don’t need to find you — I already did.”

“If you ever touch her again, even with your voice, I will destroy every part of your miserable existence. And when that’s done, I’ll make sure the world forgets you ever existed.”

“She’s not afraid of you anymore. But you should be afraid of me.”

She ended the call.

Azzi sat frozen, her chest rising and falling like she couldn’t get enough air. Paige returned to the table and placed the phone face-down between them.

Azzi looked at her, wide-eyed. “You’re scary when you’re mad.”

Paige knelt beside her seat, voice low. “Never at you.”

Azzi’s jaw trembled. “I — I’m sorry — he just — he always knows what to say to ruin me. He’s right. I’m broken. I make things worse. You’re gonna get tired of me too.”

Paige reached up and cupped her cheek, firm and grounding.

“Don’t do that.” Warm hands brushed across Azzi’s cheeks. ”He’s not right about anything. You are not what he did to you. You are not too much. You are not broken.”

Azzi was unraveling fast, her breath stuttering now, panic close behind.

“Come with me,” Paige said.

She stood, helping Azzi up, and led her to the dim hallway Room 35. She pulled her gently into the room and in front of the mirror. Paige stood behind Azzi as she turned her to face their reflection.

“Look.”

Azzi couldn’t. Her eyes dropped.

“Azzi.” Paige’s voice left no room for retreat.

Azzi lifted her head, tears brimming.

“Say what I say,” Paige instructed. “Out loud.”

Azzi hesitated.

Paige slid a hand to the back of her neck, thumb at the base of her skull. A soft, grounding hold.

“I am not what he did to me.”

Azzi whispered it. “I am not what he did to me.”

“Again.”

“I am not what he did to me.”

“I am perfect the way I am.”

“I am perfect the way I am.”

“I am safe.”

“I am safe.”

“I am known.”

“I am known.”

“I am seen.”

“I am seen”

“I am needed.”

“I am needed.”

“I am appreciated.”

“I am appreciated.”

“I am loved.”

“I… am loved.”

“I am wanted.”

Azzi hesitated.

Paige pressed closer, voice right behind her.

“You are wanted. By me. Every version of you.”

Azzi’s lip trembled. She said it.

“I am wanted.”

She said it again.

And again.

Until her voice didn’t shake.

Until it sounded like a truth she could hold.

Paige rested her forehead against Azzi’s temple. “That’s my girl.”

They stood like that for a moment — two women, one reflection, and no ghosts in the glass.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The elevator ride back to the Aurelia was quiet. Not strained, just full. Every breath, every glance carried the weight of everything that wasn’t said in that private room. Paige stood beside Azzi, one hand loosely holding her coat, the other occasionally brushing her pinky against Azzi’s.

Azzi leaned into the wall, eyelids heavy but not from sleep. Emotion had drained her. She was still processing Paige’s rage, her protection, her voice in the hallway like a blade held at someone else’s throat.

And then the softness after. The hand at her neck. The affirmations she wasn’t sure she believed but wanted to.

The elevator dinged, opening to Azzi’s floor.

Paige didn’t rush. She walked Azzi to her apartment in silence, pausing in front of the yellow-painted door.

Azzi turned, looking at Paige with cautious eyes. "Thank you... for what you said. For everything."

“I meant all of it,” Paige replied.

The hallway was still. The lighting low and warm. And suddenly, Paige looked nervous.

“I have to tell you something, but you have to hear me out. You can’t spiral until I’m done.”

Azzi blinked. “Okay...?”

“I asked you to come because I need to end our arrangement.”

Azzi flinched, just barely, but Paige saw it. “Wait —” Azzi’s voice cracked. “Is this because of tonight? Because I panicked?”

“No.” Paige shook her head. “No, you’re perfect. It’s because I want more.”

Azzi’s breath caught.

“I don’t want you in my life because I made a deal with you. I want you because I miss you when you’re not around. Because Soleil lights up around you. Because you make my whole day softer and brighter without trying to. Because when you’re hurting, I want to be the one who helps you put the pieces back together.”

Paige took a small step closer.

“I don’t want to be your safety net. I want to be your person.”

Azzi opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Her fingers fidgeted at her side. She looked dazed, like she was trying to breathe underwater.

Paige continued gently.

“I’m not asking for anything tonight. I just want to take you out. On a real date. No rules, no expectations. Just you, me, and something you don’t have to earn.”

Azzi’s eyes burned. “What would we do?”

Paige smiled, nervous but proud. “You’ll see. But it’s casual. Comfortable. Something that feels like us. Something I think you’ll like.”

There was a pause. Azzi looked down at the doorknob, then back at Paige.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I think I’d like that.”

Paige reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Get some rest, Az.”

Azzi nodded and turned to unlock her door. Before stepping inside, she looked back over her shoulder.

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. It’s not an arrangement anymore.”  Paige paused, “It’s a beginning.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Journal Entry – September 18

I don’t really know how to explain tonight. I feel like I’m still floating inside my skin, like my body and mind haven’t caught up to each other.

We went back to Maison Noire. The place where everything started. The place I told myself to play a part. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like a character trying to earn her way into the room. I felt like myself. I was still nervous (terrified really) but not of messing up. I was scared because Paige matters to me. Too much.

And then Grant called.

His voice hasn’t changed. Still lazy. Still smug. Still poison wrapped in silk. It didn’t matter that I was dressed up or that I’ve been safe for two years. One word and I folded in on myself like I was still that girl he trained to flinch. The shame came back so fast I didn’t even realize I’d stopped breathing.

Paige took the phone from me. Just reached over and took it. I thought she was going to end the call or maybe say something cold and clipped. I didn’t expect what I heard.

She didn’t just defend me.

She destroyed him.

It wasn’t just anger. It was fury. Rage. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. It was calm, controlled, and terrifying. But she wasn’t scary to me. She was scary for me. Like a sword that only turns in one direction.

No one’s ever done that for me before. Not without strings.

She came back to the table, and I told her she was scary when she’s mad. But what I meant was I’ve never felt more protected. And I didn’t know that could be… gentle, too.

Of course I spiraled. I told her the worst things; all the fears I’ve been hoarding like some cruel little collection:

You’ll get tired of me.

I’m too broken.

I make things worse.

I’ll never be normal.

And she didn’t argue. She didn’t try to fix it or fight me on it. She just led me to the mirror and asked me to look.

She said, “Say what I say.”

I wanted to run.

But I stayed.

She made me say:

I am not what he did to me.

I am perfect the way I am.

I am safe.

I am known.

I am seen.

I am needed.

I am appreciated.

I am loved.

I am wanted.

The last one broke something open. Because I do want to be wanted. Not as a project. Not because someone feels bad for me. Not as a thing to save. Just… as me.

And Paige looked at me like I am.

When she told me she wants to end the arrangement, I thought for a second she was going to say I wasn’t worth the effort anymore. That she wanted out.

But she looked right at me and said she wants more. She wants me. (!!!!!!!)

It would’ve been so easy to back away. But I didn’t.

I said yes.

I said yes because I want her, too.

And because when she looks at me, I don’t feel like a liability.

I feel seen.

I’m still scared. I still don’t know what this means. I still think I’ll mess up.

But tonight, for the first time, I didn’t feel broken.

I felt real.

And I think that’s worth holding onto.

~ Azzi

[simp-ly-writes]

The First Thing You Hear

─────── · · How Could You Refuse? (pt.4)

Pairing: Jayce Talis x Shy!Assistant!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: quiet morning and lab-time fun, all ruined by the power of one... and Jayce is willing to do anything for everything to go back as things were... anything.

─ · · TAGS: female pronouns used, protective!Jayce, Fluff and angst, suggestive themes, kissing, kinda transitional chapter for season 2 (black outfit anyone?), mentions of blood and death, reader is mentioned to have hair and is shorter than Jayce.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 4,810

─ · · SERIES MASTERLIST

─ · · A/N: I really should be studying but all I can think about is THIS. Love and appreciate you all! *biggest virtual hugs*

─────── · ·

─ · · When you slowly blinked, opening your eyes to the sunlight coming in from underneath the door, you felt a weight on your stomach and looked down to see a sleeping Jayce, back exposed using you as a pillow. His arms wrapped around your waist, hugging you tightly as if worried you would disappear.

You threaded your fingers through his hair, feeling the silky smooth texture mixed with a few dead-ends, I need to book him a haircut, you told yourself humming gently as you debated how to remove yourself from him but as if sensing your thoughts, Jayce stirred in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent before placing more of his weight on you. At the start, it was a comforting weight as if an anxiety-blanket but it soon became unbearable.

You wheezed, "Jayce," you called out softly even though you were struggling to breathe, he did not move. "Jayce," you said a bit louder, watching as he shifted slightly, his head shaking in a "no." You scoffed, "Jayce," you warned, please don't tell me this is going to be every morning.

You watched as Jayce's golden eyes slowly opened and met your own- pleading with a small frown on his face, his hair un-styled and falling over his face. You picked up your hand, moving it back as he leaned into your touch. "morning, Jay," you said.

Jayce smiled, your heart beating rapidly in his chest in how soft he looked, as if about to cry tears of happiness that you were not some dream but physically there with him, laying in bed. "I love you," Jayce said, his voice deep and groggy as you clenched your bare thighs in reaction - hearing him chuckle.

"No good morning back?" you teased, removing your hands from his head to rub your eyes. Jayce picked himself up slightly, leaning in to place light delicate kissing from your collarbones up to your neck and just underneath your chin were he lingered.

"I want the first thing you hear ever day is my love for you, so that you may not question it," Jayce says gently before capturing your lips. You groan, pushing him away. "Morning breath, morning breath," you joke, trying to pick yourself up again but Jayce is having none of it.

"No, please. Let's just stay here for now, everyone else can wait. I have waited a decade for this, don't go now," Jayce says, kissing you once more, "please," another kiss. You fall back with a huff, looking up to Jayce. "Pleased now?" Jayce smiles a wide toothy grin, "very much so."

You watch as he rolls over, blankets exposing more skin for your eyes before Jayce is pulling you on top of his chest, chin on top of your head with a hum, "You are so beautiful." You blush, "you're pretty too," you joke, drawing random patterns on his skin before settling on a tattoo on his forearm you hadn't noticed before with his long-sleeves. You feel Jayce's chest rumble with a laugh, "thanks."

Your fingers dance across the ink before looking down at your blank arm with a contemplative look. "Why did you get this?" You ask, feeling as he shrugs, "Don't really remember but I just wanted a piece of something we all made." we all made... always so quick to be selfless.

You close your eyes with a sigh, wait... what are we? fuck, do I have a job? Yet the feeling of his thumb rubbing circles onto your hip, the soft blankets and warmth of his skin against yours had you forgetting your train of thought and falling asleep once again.

─────── · ·

─ · · You both were rushing around, bumping into one another in the bathroom. Jayce for the last half-hour had been trying to tempt you to join him in the shower but you too busy cursing him out once seeing all the marks running up your sore thighs. "Jayce fucking Talis," you swore watching as he poked his head out with a smirk.

"You were screaming my name quite pleasantly last night, whats the difference?" You shook your head, doing your makeup with the little you has in your purse before tucking in an over-sized button up. "You look so good in my clothes," Jayce murmured, a wet head placing a kiss to your exposed shoulder. "You're getting me all wet, Jay!"

"Oh am I now?" he raises a brow.

"I'll leave now if you don't stop," you threatened, looking at him through the slightly foggy mirror, trying to hide a smile. "You wouldn't dare," Jayce glared at you back, taking your words seriously, zipping up his pants and leaning on the counter. You raised your chin, "I mean, you said it yourself... I do have an officer wanting my-"

The sudden rush to your head as you were picked up and you swatted his back, "We are going to be even more late! The meeting started an hour ago we really have to go NOW!"

"You're officially unemployed now, remember?" Jayce said back, hips pinning you to the bed, your hands trapped between one of his larger ones. "But what about you?" you said, albeit a bit breathlessly.

"You got me caught up yesterday, or did you already forget?" Jayce tilts his head, kissing you in between words.

"You didn't fuck me that good, Jayce," you chuckle before seeing the look that casts over his features before capturing your bottom lip between his teeth and letting it fall. "No? then allow me to try again."

─────── · ·

─ · · You were not leaving unless you ran, and run you did after flinging back on your clothes and dashing right to the lab leaving an angry Jayce back at his apartment. You opened and closed the door before bracing your hands on your knees and intaking deep breaths before looking around the space and finding Viktor asleep at his desk. His cheeks appeared hollowed, his eyes sagging with bags as your heart cried, you hated how he had to get worse before getting better.

You brought a hand up, placing it at his back to feel his shallow breaths before you shook him away feeling him startle and sway. You grabbed his shoulder's gently, keeping the man in place, a frown coating your features, "Viktor? hey, hey, are you doing okay?"

Viktor looked through you with dead eyes. "I have been fine, just need to figure this out." You nodded, removing your touch before moving back to the blackboards. "I got fired," you said with your back turned feeling his wide stare, now fully awake. "He is an idiot, I apologize. Consider yourself hired." You scoffed before sharing a laugh.

"Really?" you turned around with a smile, knowing that this was what you were going to do all along. Viktor rolls his eye before he nods his head once- turning back to his desk and observing the growing plant at his desk with newfound intrigue... as if he could listen to it...

You watched out of the corner of your eye before he snapped his head over and you looked back with a whistle. Picking up a piece of chalk, you rewrote parts with new numbers you had written on your palm. Hmmm, maybe a 4 instead Oh! but what if we... you lost yourself in the maze your text swirling in circles as did your head.

─────── · ·

─ · · Jayce had joined you both later that day after a meeting with the council, tensions appeared as high and tight as his shoulders. You stepped down from a stool, dusting your hands on your pants before waving to Jayce of extended his hand in a silent ask that you followed, sitting on his desk as he placed his head in your lap with a sigh, "All I want is for this to do good, to save people, to protect Piltover... I didn't want all these politics and-" Jayce sighs, "I sound ungrateful, I'm sorry."

"No, Jayce. Don't say that," you said to him, "It's a job that no good person like yourself wants and the kind of job only the worst people strive towards. I may not be able to hold the burden, but I can help ease it," you say, picking his head up as he kisses your palm in thanks, closing his eyes before you both turn once hearing Viktor's scoff.

"I thought you got fired. Now you are a therapist."

"Oh, Viktor," you laugh, shaking your head before shoving Jayce off you as he leans back in his chair, playing with a pencil between his fingers as he looks at your combined work with squinted eyes. You all were so close to finding the answer to all your issues... it would only take a matter of time...

─────── · ·

─ · · When you and Jayce stepped out of the lab and back onto the Piltover streets for lunch, you were shocked just as everyone else was on how excited everyone appeared while looking at you both together.

"See son, I told you so," a parent says to their child groans and rolls there eyes with a huff before smiling at you and looking down at your connected hands. Jayce raises his chin, not even trying to hide his smile as you bury your face into his arm. "Too many eyes," you mumble, cheeks warming in what appears a permanent blush.

Cameras flashed as you walked together, "Why couldn't I just stay back in the lab?" you question, "I'm sure Viktor is lonely."

"I'm sure he is, and is thankful for it. We did spend the afternoon annoying him" Jayce replies with a chuckle, moving you to his other side while walking further away from the street. "You know you can't just pick me up and move me around Jayce," you comment, still looking ahead, feeling his stare, "I just want you safe." The crowd aww's as you slap his arm. "You're doing this on purpose," you glare.

Jayce shrugs, leaning down to kiss your forehead, "I'm just giving the people what they want." And by that moment, a little girl had ran off and hugged each of your legs together before looking up at you both. "Are you alright?" Jayce asked, crouching down, extending his hand as you leaned down as well. The girl only looked at you, eyes wide and mouth agape in awe, "I always wanted to meet a princess!"

Your eyes are now equally wide as you laugh off your shock, "Umm, well, sweetie I'm really not-" She leaps into your arms, hugging you, Jayce looks at the image of you two together fondly and with a certain glint to his eyes, you narrow your own, no, Jayce. The man picks up his hands, showing you his palms before a father is rushing over, apologizing profusely to you both as he unlatches his daughter from your arms.

"I am terribly sorry, she has an overactive imagination and-and loves you two- and I love your both- together I mean and," the father shakes his head as you hold up your hand, "Its alright," you speak softly receiving an appreciative nod.

"Princess?" Jayce tests the name on his lips, looking down at you and you can't look at him in the eyes right now, catching the look of someone in the crowd who gives you a thumbs up, hextech help me.

─────── · ·

─ · · The following days leading up to Jayce's speech were filled with the trio loosing themselves in the laboratory like shadows of their past echoing in the present. You sat beside Jayce, feet swinging back and fourth off his desk as you jotted down findings in your table-charts and journals.

A record was playing in the background as Viktor shook his head gently side to side with the beat, mumbling the chorus as Jayce joined in as the other voice, you laughed, flinging your head back while watching them both share this moment; singing and dancing as you got up, Jayce picking up your hand and inviting you to twirl before pulling you into a kiss.

You pulled away laughing, placing your head on his chest as you stood there looking out to a sunset Piltover, "I have missed this," you say without expecting a response, just voicing out your thoughts as Jayce places a large palm between your shoulder blades, bringing you close before forcing Viktor to join the group hug with a sigh. "I have missed this," Jayce says, squeezing you all together as Viktor groans and gags before removing himself, a smile evident on his features as he casts you a wink.

You playfully fan yourself before exchanging an eye roll, Jayce grunts, "Are you stealing my girl from me Viktor?" he teases as Viktor tenses. "No. I wouldn't do that to you, but she is my new lab assistant," he says as you firmly nod, crossing your arms in a challenging stance as Jayce hums, "You were quick to find work, sweetheart."

You shake your head with a smile, "This was never about work," you repeat Jayce's word back to him watching as his eyes light up, "I love you," he says.

"If you two are going to be acting like this, I might have to fire you both," Viktor says, half mocking, half seriously. You and Jayce look at one another before looking back at Viktor, "we love you too, Viktor!"

Viktor pinches the bridge of his nose cursing you both out.

─────── · ·

─ · · Later that day, you all sat in front of the blackboard in your respective chairs, Jayce's arm around the back of yours as you all ate together, the conversation taken away from scientific's as you all catch up with one another.

"Jayce and I are... together now," you say. "I couldn't see that," Viktor firs back, fork pointing at the arm around your shoulder and the hand that twirls your hair in between his fingers. Your cheeks warm as you look away from them both and stare straight at the board.

Viktor leans forward into your vision, "I am happy for you both, truly." You smile as does Viktor before leaning back. You lean your head back on Jayce's arm, closing your eyes. "Don't fall asleep on me, will have to carry you back," Jayce says, your eyes open, head turning to look at your boyfriend. The term has your heart pounding to admit it to yourself.

"Like you would hate to do that, Jay," you retort with a snort. "You caught me there."

─ · · Jayce ended up carrying you to your bed, helping you out of your boots, putting down your hair as you leaned subconsciously into his touch, hands pulling to bring with warmth into your embrace as he chuckled and crawled in beside you before pulling over the covers.

You felt around with a frown before rolling over into his side and finding a smile. Jayce looked down at you resting on his chest, his heart aching with deep affection as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with a sigh, "I love you," he whispered to himself before looking up at your ceiling. and I hope that its enough for what it to come...

─────── · ·

─ · · You stood behind the curtain, watching off to the side as Jayce presented his second Progress Day speech. You didn't want to be in the crowd for his speech this time, a little selfish you knew but you didn't do well with crowds, happy to recite his words as he spoke them to everyone for the first time, you? the thousandths time.

You look to Viktor standing by yourself as he grips your hand, eyes scared yet proud of Jayce just as you were. "Thank god its not us speaking," you joke as the crowd cheers. Viktor laughs, squeezing your hand, "You know, I think we would put them to sleep." Its your turn to laugh before a voice shushes you and you both stand tall. Eyes gleaming in silent humour.

─ · · But with progress came set backs as you all stumbled back, a load distant bang rumbled through the backstage, you looked catching a glimpse of blue, but maybe it was just the fireworks? You told yourself feeling unease. Viktor tensed, dropping your hand and taking a step forward, he looked through the darkness while Jayce was finishing up his speech.

Your hands were shaking, you knew something was not right but you could not put your hand on it. So lost in your thoughts, you didn't realize Jayce was back, he grabbed your shoulders, shaking them slightly, "sweetheart? come back to me, whats wrong?" he asked, looking around the dark space to Viktor who just shrugged.

You looked up, a wary smile, "I-It's nothing Jayce," you told both him and yourself before reaching up and placing his hand on your cheek. "I'm alright... let's go and-" a scream sounded and you could smell smoke but by the time you looked back, the gemstone you all were saving was gone, shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

─────── · ·

─ · · The next series of months that lead into years were from hell. Those beginning quiet mornings with Jayce were now all-nighters as you both pulled your hair out and fell asleep atop one another, too tired do anything else, minds racing with work and endless life-altering decisions.

─ · · You could feel how much pressure the council was putting on Jayce, how this missing gemstone in the wrong hands was only going to be the first card falling in a series of failed hands you would be forced to play. And just when you thought yourself to be out of politics, that Viktor was doing okay, that your relationship was going alright. It all came slamming into you.

─ · · You and Jayce were without sleep, you nearly in tears from stress as Jayce yelled out his frustrations to you but it felt like at you by how stressed he was. You gripped your head, knees being pulled up into your chin as you rocked yourself for comfort. Someone just made a threat on our lives, someone wants to-to kill me! was all you could think and Jayce was already loosing his mind long before you were at the news he did his best to hide from you... people knew how much you meant to the councillor, how easily he would crumble without you. How did this all happen so quickly? You asked the sky, blinking away tears... how did warm mornings and long days in the lab result to this? The sky said nothing in response, just staring blankly back in its blue hues, crying at the loss of innocence alongside you.

─ · · You watched Jayce in the forge, sweat dripping down your back even when you stood far away from the fire. You would think your partner to be highly attractive in the current moment if you were your younger more clueless self as he worked himself to the bone, making what he promised never to do before... weapons. You hated that your combined life's work was not working out, that Viktor's health was failing and that Hextech was to be used this way but what little choice did you all have? The gates were up, your time was limited and being peacekeepers didn't work in the past... you felt disgusted with yourself as did Jayce, the tattoo burning against his skin, the embers hotly kissing your cheeks- burning into your skin like freckles. past self, please forgive me... for I am not the person I want to be...

─────── · ·

─ · · One night when you sat alone in your dark apartment besides a singular lamp, tea in hand as your floor was covered in a carpet of blueprints, a sudden knocking at the door had you grabbing a knife from the kitchen as you shook before seeing a broken Jayce at your doorstep, not speaking a word. You opened the door, allowing him to fall into your arms- his hammer leaving a permanent mark on the tiles in your entry-way. You didn't ask what happened, you didn't want to know. You had visited Viktor earlier that day in the hospital, your heart couldn't take much more and as Jayce kissed you for the first time in months, emotions overcame you both with a need for comfort in one another, in a remembrance of a past time where the stresses were at least manageable. A time where it was easy to love one another.

Your hands shook as you exposed skin, you sobbed against his shoulder as he silently cried into your own. His hand gripped your hips, pleading as you bit your quivering lip, listening to his whispers near your ear as he repeated, "I love you, I'm sorry," endlessly as if to repent. And that night you left permeant marks on one another as others would fade over time.

─────── · ·

─ · · You and Jayce held one another in the morning, the light appearing cold as the breeze as you thought of an empty lab, a sense of deja vu washing over you both. You grasped his hand, closing your eyes again to keep in the moment, to keep the tears at bay, you were going to lose a friend today, slowly you would watch him fade away as you have been but this time... there was no hope.

Viktor would take his last breath, he would solve his last equation with you by his bedside, crack his last insult in your face and then... nothing. You felt sick, a hollow feeling in your stomach, your blood cold.

Today you would watch from the corners as Jayce spoke with the council in a desperate attempt for solution; something you both always used to be good at... cracking numbers, drawing diagrams, you could smile, cry, laugh, plead- with your past self yet they were never returning back to help you now.

You thought back to your first days working alongside Jayce, just how scared you were then as you were now. You remember meeting Jayce's mother, her cooking on your tongue and her sweet and welcoming words in your ears as she hugged you dearly, as if one of her own. You think of Jayce drawing on your skin, whispering into his ear during early council meetings, of the passion that burned in his eyes as he pulled you down the hall and the love in his eyes as you screamed and yelled at him.

You don't realize yourself to be silently crying as you think about the first night you shared together. His touch, body draping over and protecting your own while bruising your skin with his love before kissing over the marks. You felt as Jayce's chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, he too was struggling as he pressed his head to your shoulder.

"I love you..." I want the first thing you hear ever day is my love for you, so that you may not question it... you thought back to his past words, "...It'll all be over soon," Jayce whispered seemingly to himself as you nodded along. You hated every string attached to those words, you were not ready to say goodbye just yet to it all but it was what had to be done to save so many...

─────── · ·

─ · · You both slowly got dressed in separate corners of the room and walked side by side, un-touching on your way to the council room where Viktor stood waiting for you both. Guards nodded towards you all before opening the doors to the room already in shambles. Fingers were being pointed, hair pulled, wine spilled over the stone like blood dripping off the jagged edges.

You and Jayce looked at one another, foreheads pressing together in a lingering kiss of minds but just as you took a step back, watching as Jayce began to walk up the steps, the room stirring to silence. Jayce paused, hand extending and flexing in a silent ask, and how could you refuse after it all?

You took small strides before grasping his hand in the support he needed with his head hung low. You reached your hand out to grasp Viktor's as you all moved towards to the head of the table and took your seats. The words were spoken to yells and shouts. It was war, the screaming, the stares and then the peace as hand by hand rose and just as Jayce moved your connected hands up... the last thing you could hear was a scream.

─────── · ·

─ · · Jayce woke up, his arm killing him as he quickly turned around the room, hearing vicious laughter echoing in the back of his mind. He was in hyper-drive, hands shaking as he faced the broken window at his back before feeling something roll down to touch his foot, half of a spray-painted broken smile mocked him on a piece of metal that he kicked aside with a shout before looking at the rest of the destruction and corpses before him.

Floodlights entered the space, enforcers yelled for support and to lock down the city as Jayce staggered seeing his old mentors, peers, Viktor... all dead but still no sight of you. Mel shook herself, shoving a scrap piece of metal off her body with a shout before standing with a wobble, she looked towards Jayce as the man looked to be loosing himself.

Jayce started to laugh, tears streaming down his face as he searched desperately for you, I was supposed to protect you, Jayce felt besides himself in sickness, no, no, no, you could not be dead- he wouldn't allow it, he refused.

"(NAME)!" Jayce shouted in a panic before feeling a hand on his arm, his head snapped over, eyes hopeful before disappointed that rocked Mel to her core. "Jayce," she said softly before Jayce was ripping her touch off of him and shouting your name again and again.

Mel cupped her hands to her chest, her heart aching for her friend and peer as he gripped at his hair, he started to smile, turning to face her with wide eyes, "she's not here," Jayce laughed having officially lost it, "She-she's not here," he laughed so hard, falling to his knees before crying and rocking himself. I need her, I need her, my girl, mine, where are you? Please, you are all I ask for, ever have, I never wanted any of this...

His head flicked back over to Viktor's lifeless self as he felt numb, just staring blankly as Mel knelt in front of him, tears streaming down her own cheeks as she didn't know what to do, how to help. "Jayce, he's gone, Viktor's gone... please, we have to get to safety." Jayce shakes his head, "No, she deserves to be here with us, she did nothing wrong! It should have been me!" Jayce shouts, the cold touch of morning air caressing his cheek.

"You can't save her if you are still here, Jayce. Please, we can go find her right afterwards, we just have to leave now," Mel's words appear to knock sense back into the man before her as he picks up Viktor's hand one last time, pressing it above his heart, his eyes widen feeling a light pulse and next thing he knows... he was running

─────── · ·

─ · · The first thing you could hear was a chainsaw that had your brain and heart kickstarting away. Your eyes opened, hissing from the swinging light above your head. A green goo slipped down your cheek and onto your pant legs. You could feel their heavy breath on your head as they yelled into your ear, "I can't wait to watch the life slip from your eyes so that he knows what he took from me, he feels my pain."

You shook in your seat, trying to escape your bindings but with no use. You cried, trying to shake the chair side to side yet it was welded to the floor. "Jayce!" you called out begging, their cackles carved out your heart as they mocked you, "Jayce! Jayce!" they wined and pleaded in your face, the moving blade catching a part of your shoe as you screamed.

"Save your voice for the show, little one. You are going to need it for when every topside member see's there beloved (first/name) (last/name) die right in front of them. Oh what a show it will be!"

─────── · ·

─ · · JAYCE TALIS TAGLIST: @sseleniaa @sunshiines-stuff

─ · · A/N: please don't hate me! I gave fluff right... right?

─ · · SERIES MASTERLIST

[basicallyreigenarataka]

lost and found - toji x reader x sukuna

chapter 8

summary: gojo is an asshole. sukunas there for you, though (and toji)

* ooc, MDNI, mentioned dubcon (between gojo and reader) because reader was under the influence, toji being shameless(and a freak), mentioned masturbation and dacryphilia

not proofread

masterlist. prev. next

you were shocked gojo would even think about bringing that night up. even more so hurt, you guys promised to never bring that up again. and to imply that you were hooking up with sukuna? that was disgusting.

two months ago when you were beginning to introduce shoko and utahime together, shoko invited you two to a party. gojo clearly wanted to tag along, so the two of you reluctantly agreed (with shokos approval, of course).

at the party, shoko and utahime obviously hooked up. everyone could see the tension between them, and you were happy for them. but that left you and gojo alone, and after coercing you to drink much more than you wanted, the two of you ended up hooking up, as well. gojo must’ve been jealous utahime was getting more pussy than him.

you don’t remember the night at all. you were way too drunk, but gojo could strangely remember everything. you didn’t know how, considering he claimed to also be drunk.

you were tired of this disrespect. you were known to be a compliant, quiet girl. you always let others take advantage and disrespect you, but you were honestly sick of it. you’ve had so many bottled up emotions over the years of letting people walk all over you, and you think it’s finally time you stand up for yourself.

you did not hesitate to block gojo. yea, maybe he’ll tell everyone you guys had sex or whatever, but it’s not like he had evidence. you’ll just say it never happened and use your scary dog privileges (sukuna) to make him back off.

could you consider sukuna someone you could trust? he told you if gojo ever did anything, he’d be there to help. so you did consider him someone you could trust, despite how scary he was.

someone delivered your shower products just as sukuna finally reappeared.

“sorry,” sukuna said in his usual (and insanely attractive) gruff voice.

“i told toji off. he won’t bother you anymore.”

you didn’t want to know what sukuna did to make toji stop, so you just smiled at him.

“it’s okay, really.” you said, trying to sound as appreciative as possible. “could you help me with the shower? and i know you told me not to pay you back, but im going to anyway-“

sukuna grunted, his face going red once more. is it hot in here? if it was, you didn’t feel it.

“help… you in the shower?”

you tilted your head, confused why he was acting so fidgety. “if you don’t mind… i just need you to show me which direction to turn the knob to make it hot-“ you felt stupid for asking. he probably thought you were an idiot.

“oh.” he coughed, quickly pushing past you to the bathroom,

“how hot do you like it?” he asked, his face turned away from you (much to your dismay).

“i want to feel like im boiling alive.”

sukuna snorted at your response. it was cute, causing you to laugh as well.

“it’ll take a minute to heat up, just yell for me if you need anything.” he told you, still avoiding eye contact as she made his way past you and to the door.

before leaving, he called over his shoulder,

“and i told you not to worry about paying me back.”

with that, he closed the door behind him, and once again, you were alone. you made sure to lock the door behind him, not wanting toji to waltz in again like he owned the place (well, he did).

you hummed as you stripped yourself, setting your clothes down beside the towel sukuna left for you by the sink. you hated putting on dirty clothes, especially after a shower, but it’ll have to do.

almost as if toji could read your mind, he knocked on the bathroom door. this caused you to jump, a bit shocked by the sudden noise.

at least this time he knocked.

“did sukuna leave you any clothes?” he asked, his voice deep and gruff. they both had that same almost scary tone to their voice, a roughness to it, yet you could somehow easily tell the two apart.

“um, no, it’s alright.” you yelled from behind the door, covering yourself up despite the door being locked.

“need a pair?” he asked. you glanced at your used clothes, biting your lip as you pondered if you should take him up on his offer.

“if you don’t mind?” you finally responded. you got no response, only the sound of footsteps fading away.

you wondered if he was leaving to get you clothes, or if he just did that to mess with you. you scrunched your face up in confusion, this guy was weird.

you shrugged to yourself, not expecting him to come back after the fifth minute. he must’ve just been teasing, what a weirdo.

you sighed, moving the curtain to the side so you could step in the shower, and then, of course, toji knocked. tool him long enough.

“i’ve got you some clothes, doll. sorry i took a while, was trying to find some old clothes that might be smaller so they’d fit.”

you blinked, still shocked he came back. you stepped out of the shower, wrapping the towel around you as you quietly stepped towards the door.

as if noticing you discomfort and hesitation, toji spoke up, “i’ll leave them for you out here if you’re too shy to take them from me.”

you didn’t know if he was flirting, teasing, or mocking.

but, you knew he left because you could hear the sound of his footsteps fading away once more.

you were quick to open the bathroom door when you couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore, a small pile of clothes (that were definitely too big) on the ground.

you practically slammed the door behind you after retrieving the clothes, terrified one of them would see you, whining when you noticed the size. this would definitely not fit. the boxers, at least.

it was nice of him to try to get smaller sizes for you, but god, he was huge. this wouldn’t fit anybody.

you decided that would be a problem for later you, and you should instead focus on showering before you used up of their hot water.

you stepped in, once again thankful for sukunas credit card buying you the shower supplies when your gaze turned to the mystical, definitely not safe, six in one bottle of shampoo and conditioner. what were the other four, you wondered…

as much as you’d love to keep these delicious strawberry scentened products, you thought you’d be doing them a favor by keeping them here. not only did sukuna pay for them, but they probably had some unknown chemicals creating a new disease in that six in one bottle. they’d have to suck up smelling like strawberries, you said to yourself as you made a mental note to throw out that bottle, maybe burn it. you’d be doing them a favor.

while you loved to take long showers, you were mindful of their water bill and only took as long as necessary (which was still long).

you stepped out, the bathroom was steamy, you weren’t visible in the mirror. you childishly drew a smiley face on the mirror, unable to resist with a giggle.

now, the problem.

the clothes.

you couldn’t even ask sukuna for a pair of his clothes, as he was just as big as toji. either way, they’d be falling off. but, it was better than used clothes, right?

you slipped the oversized t-shirt on, the material practically drowning you. it landed just above your mid thigh, making you look small in comparison.

while you disliked used clothes, you thought it would be best to throw your bra on under it. the neck of the shirt was so loose around you, if they were to look at you from a taller angle (which, they always are), you’d be flashing the poor men.

you however do NOT want to put back on your used panties. you didn’t know why, considering it was your pussy, but you disliked the idea of wearing the same pair of panties more than once without being washed. it was just one of those little things that grossed you out.

boxers were technically underwear, right? you thought to yourself, pulling the ridiculously large pair up. they barely clung to your hip, much to your dismay.

well, it would just be tonight. you thought, trying to wiggle them up higher, but they just kept falling down your waist and to your hips. at least the shirt covered you.

you stepped out of the bathroom, the overpowering scent of strawberries following you into the living room where both men sat on the couch.

“you smell nice,” sukuna spoke, his gaze immediately wandering to your toji’s clothes. you could see the faint envy in his eyes.

“thank you,” you said with a soft smile, “you can keep all that stuff. it smells nice and it’s way better than whatever that six in one concoction is..”

“are you saying that because you want us to keep it, or because you plan on coming here more often?”

the question sprung up by toji caught you off guard. once again, you couldn’t tell if he was flirting, teasing, or mocking. he always had that same somewhat malicious tone to his voice, but as you’ve come to know of sukuna, you think that’s just how he normally sounds- rather than being rude towards you.

“both…?” you decided to answer, a bit confused with both his question and your answer. you wouldn’t mind coming to see them more, they were nice, but you weren’t sure if toji meant it in a sexual way or not.

“then i suppose i can see you in my clothes often, too?”

oh, he was totally flirting.

it seems sukuna telling him off didn’t scare toji off for long, because here he was, shamelessly flirting with you infront of sukuna.

sukuna was definitely going to beat up toji.

sukuna, not wanting to scare you, decided to bring you to his room so he wouldn’t hear him and toji arguing. he made sure to let you know that you can sleep in his room, he’d just crash out on the couch. he said you were welcome to lock the door if you felt uncomfortable, god, he had too much trust in you for a guy you just met. you were going to protest, but he was quick to shut the door behind him. as usual.

you bit your lip, looking around his room. this was awkward, you thought. you didn’t want to be the reason the two were arguing.

you felt beyond guilty for even dragging sukuna into your own mess. you should’ve just dealt with gojo yourself, you shouldn’t have even accepted his offer to help.

was it sensitive of you to cry? maybe, but you were so pent up. you still haven’t properly accepted the fact that you just practically lost all your friends.

what you needed was a good cry, and thankfully for you, they were too busy arguing to hear your small, pitiful whimpers as you hugged yourself close, finally letting yourself go after having such a terrible day.

arguing over text when they were sitting right next to each other was a little funny. but when toji admitted he was also looking to an actual relationship with you, sukuna got angry. not even uraume could help them with this argument.

the two have never fought over a girl before, neither of them were the type to be in a committed relationship.

but now, it was different.

sukuna was sure toji was only claiming that because he hated when sukuna had something he didn’t.

the two argued that night, although both were mindful to keep it down so you wouldn’t hear. although, in the midst of their whisper-yelling, sukuna noticed the sound of your small sobs.

“shut up.” sukuna growled, glaring at toji as he turned to face his bedroom door. the sound of another sob alerted him that you were in fact crying.

“shit.” toji sighed, “you go check on her.”

sukuna was shocked toji was offering for him to do it, considering toji apparently liked you and everything. he gave toji a curt nod, making his way to his bedroom and knocking.

toji could hear sukuna say ‘can i come in?’ softly as he made his way to the bathroom, his gaze immediately shifting to your used clothes discarding on the sink.

toji heard the sound of sukunas door opening and closing, glancing over his shoulder every second to make sure neither of you were coming out.

he discreetly picked up your panties, a cute lacy pair with little pink bows on the side. he stuffed the cute thing in his pocket, swiftly returning to his room.

and that night, as sukuna comforted you and you cried about your misfortunate day, toji wrapped the pair of panties around his cock and thrusted to the sound of your cries.

he came fantasizing about how you would cry on his cock

sorry i got a little freaky there…

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